The Tenth Muse
by Steadfast-Bright-Star
Summary: AU. Matthew is recovering from a painful break-up when he is given the formidable job of translating the work of reclusive poet Francis into English. An invitation from the poet to spend the summer with him reveals secrets and Matthew finds that the thing that first inspired Francis to write was the same thing that made him hide himself away. Ex-PruCan, eventual Franada.
1. Chapter 1

Matthew tapped his pencil against his teeth and looked down at the book open on the table in front of him. It was very late and he was exhausted, in the way that left you with a dull, pulsing headache and dry, burning eyes. He had no sort of timekeeping device within reach but the brownish, light-polluted city sky, along with the near-silence of the street outside, told him that it was the deepest, stillest part of the night. He yawned and tried to turn his attention back to the book. He wondered when Gilbert would be home. It wasn't the first time he'd been out ridiculously late. Matthew frowned at the words on the page. He was a translator by trade, but his career arc had been a disappointing one. He'd had such high hopes when he'd started out: plays, poetry, literary novels, new editions of the classics… Instead, he was stuck with a cheap thriller, one that was so dire he was ashamed of the fact that his name would appear on the title page.

He was naturally shy, but found that he gained confidence when he was communicating in French, the language he had spent so long learning and perfecting until only his accent betrayed the fact that he was not a native speaker. He had always loved languages at school and had been fascinated by the idea that it was possible to say the same thing in so many different ways. His twin brother, Alfred, on the other hand, was untouched by Matthew's enthusiasm. Where Matthew spent hours writing pages and pages of perfect French, Alfred either used Google Translate or didn't do his homework at all. He failed his French GCSE and remained resolutely monolingual – at any rate, he was of the opinion that everyone should speak English. Matthew could vividly remember his first oral exam, the one that had convinced him to make a living in another language. He had gone in trembling and almost sick with nerves, his throat closing up. But when, at the teacher's prompting, he had begun to speak, the words had flowed out as clearly and effortlessly as if he had been speaking English. For the first time in his life, he had felt proud of achieving something that was not immediately dismissed or overshadowed by Alfred.

Another yawn broke his train of thought. He couldn't wait up any longer. It was too late to focus on what he was doing and Gilbert probably wouldn't be that bothered about seeing him anyway. Lately, their relationship had been causing Matthew some trouble. They had been together for four years and living together for three but Matthew couldn't help but feel that they were drifting apart. Slowly, almost one-by-one, they had left off their little romantic gestures until there was practically nothing left. The vase of flowers that Gilbert had always taken pride in replenishing every single week had lain empty for months, ever since the last bouquet had wilted in obscurity and Matthew had thrown it away. Gilbert hadn't woken up early to make him pancakes in a long time. They no longer fell asleep in each other's arms – instead, they slept and woke on opposite sides of the bed, a great chasm between them. Kisses were rare and when they came they were always short and passionless, placed somewhere neutral like the cheek or brow.

Sighing, Matthew stood up, wincing at the pain in his back that came from being hunched over his work for so long. He went through to the bedroom and quickly dressed in his pyjamas, shivering as the cold night air numbed his skin. Once dressed, he climbed into bed and picked up his favourite book from the bedside table, intending to read a little before turning the light off. It was a slim volume of poetry, interesting in itself, but made more so by the story behind it. The name on the cover said that it was written by someone called Pierre Dubois, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that this was a pseudonym. The poet's life was a complete mystery. No-one had ever seen a picture of him and he had never made any television appearances or given any interviews. No-one knew where he lived, apart from that it was in France. The only thing people knew about him was his voice, since he had made a few recordings. Matthew adored the poetry and was fascinated by the man behind it. It had never been translated into English, or indeed any language, and Matthew occasionally fantasised about being the one chosen for the job. It was unlikely, he thought, but not impossible. He yawned for a third time and this time his eyes remained closed. The book dropped from his unconscious hand onto the floor as sleep abruptly pulled a shutter down over his fevered mind

He was woken by Gilbert's arrival but didn't want to say in anything, so he kept his eyes closed and his breathing even. The bed creaked slightly as Gilbert climbed in, but that was the only sound. There was no goodnight kiss, no gentle hand smoothing his hair back from his face, no whispered 'I love you.' A strange and uncharacteristic irritation came over Matthew. This had been going on too long. In the morning, he would ask Gilbert why he'd been out so late. He'd shrug and make some excuse about having to stay on at work or meeting some friends and Matthew would drop the matter, even though these answers never satisfied him. He was upset. He was exasperated. And yes, he was beginning to feel suspicious. He desperately didn't want to think that Gilbert might be being unfaithful to him, but the idea made a discomfiting amount of sense. He felt a sudden surge of desire to know the truth. He knew where Gilbert kept his phone. It would be so easy to have a quick look, confirm or hopefully deny his suspicions and put it back in place before Gilbert woke and noticed its absence.

Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, Matthew found himself with the sleek shape of Gilbert's fashionable phone in his hand. Every part of him was screaming to put it down, telling him that it wasn't worth the risk. Cheating or not, if Gilbert caught him looking through his phone, they would be history within a matter of minutes. Still feeling like he was sleepwalking, Matthew carried his prize into the bathroom and locked the door, horribly attuned to every tiny sound that could give him away. Once there, he looked down at the screen and saw that it was passcode locked. Damn. He'd forgotten about that, the most obvious obstacle. He tried _Mattie. _Access denied, although he bitterly realised that it wasn't a big surprise. He tried _Awesome _but again had no success. Now he was nervous. If he got it wrong one more time, an alarm would go off, but if he left it as it was, Gilbert would see that someone had twice tried to hack in. Hands shaking, he tried _Gilbird_, the name of Gilbert's first pet. The login screen fell away and was replaced by a page of apps. Immensely relieved, Matthew tapped the messages icon. There were a few from him – unromantic things, asking when he'd be home and if he could pick up some milk on the way. There were some from his brother, which Matthew didn't bother reading and some from… Wait, who was 'Roddy'? Gilbert had never mentioned him before. He had a look through them, bile rising further in his throat with every one he read.

_Hey cutie, you free tomorrow night?... Love you xxx… Yesterday was so awesome! _So it was true. His nightmare had become reality. Rage robbed him of all caution. He pressed the contact and raised the phone to his ear. He had a few things to say to this 'Roddy' character.

'Hey Gil. Couldn't you get enough of me? Or are you asking about your coat? You left it here.' The voice that answered was thick with sleep. Even though Matthew had never met the man, he had a vivid mental image of him waking up, squinting at his phone and smiling when he saw his lover's name on the caller ID.

'I'm not Gilbert,' Matthew replied, not quite sure of how he was going to proceed.

'What? Oh my God, has something happened to him?' The languid voice took on a note of genuine panic.

'Don't be so surprised. You were always going to get discovered at some point.' Matthew had no idea where all this strength was coming from but it drove him to be ruthless and savage.

'Discovered? What do you mean? Wait, who is this?'

'I'm Gilbert's boyfriend. Don't act like you don't know.' On the other end of the line, he heard a rustling as this mysterious other person sat up. Matthew pictured him again, imagining his face twisting with horror as he realised he had been found out.

'You're mad. I'm Gilbert's boyfriend. Unless he's somehow been cheating on me. Which I find very unlikely.' This threw Matthew a little. Was it possible that Gilbert had lied to both of them?

'He lives with me. We've been together for four years.' Matthew couldn't bring himself to say anything more. His heart was breaking. Across the city, Roderich was in a similar state, except that for him, there was no 'other man'. That was him.

'I'm so, so sorry,' he said, beginning to cry. 'I had no idea.' But Matthew had already hung up. He sat in the corner of the bathroom, sobbing silently, the phone discarded on the floor beside him. At the same time, Roderich was burying his face in his hands, overcome by shock, undeserved shame and despair. He felt as low, dirty and defiled as Matthew was hurt and betrayed. Gilbert's lies had simultaneously destroyed two lives.

….

'I talked to Roddy last night,' Matthew said the next morning, breaking the silence that usually palled their breakfast table.

'Who?' Gilbert asked nonchalantly, refusing to look at him.

'Don't. Please. I know about him.' Matthew tried to stop his voice from cracking. 'He didn't know about me. You betrayed both of us. Why? Just tell me why.' Gilbert stared at the table in shame.

'I'm sorry, Mattie. I'm so sorry. I don't know why I did it.'

'But you didn't just do it once. This thing with him has been going on a long time. I suspected it but I didn't want to be right. Seems I was.' Gilbert looked to be on the verge of tears and Matthew felt his heart harden and contempt replace the love that he hadn't felt in a long time. 'Wasn't I good enough for you?' he asked, his voice returning to its usual softness as his anger was replaced by sadness.

'I'm so sorry,' Gilbert repeated. 'I was a complete idiot. I should never have done it. I'll do anything to make it up to you, absolutely anything.' Matthew spoke his next words carefully, knowing that they would change the course of his life.

'Go out. Come back in three hours. I'll be gone by then and I'll never see you again.' Gilbert seemed to finally understand that there was no use in pleading and went out, leaving Matthew alone with his tears. He had a call to make.

'Hey bro, how can the hero help you today?' Alfred's effusive greeting rang too loudly in his ears.

'Alfred, I need you to come and pick me up.' Matthew sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

'Bro? What's wrong?'

'I'm leaving Gilbert.' Alfred was astonished.

'What? Why?' Matthew didn't trust himself to speak.

'I'll tell you when you get here. Just come.'

Matthew only had two suitcases and was determined to travel light. Everything in the flat was full of memories that, with his knowledge of Gilbert's infidelity, were forever tainted. He took his laptop and the book he was working on; most of his clothes – he didn't have many; a couple of ornaments he'd liked and bought on their various holidays. He slipped his beloved poetry book, along with a few others, into the top of his bag and zipped it shut. Then he sat down on it and waited for Alfred to arrive. He keenly felt a chapter in his life coming to a close.

As soon as Alfred came to the door, Matthew fell weeping into his arms.

'Bro? Bro, what happened? What did he do?' Alfred was horrified. He had always been protective of his twin and it pained him to see him upset.

'He cheated on me!' Matthew wailed, inconsolable. Alfred was furious.

'What? Where is he? I swear to God I'll…'

'No, Al, don't get involved. I just want to forget all about him. I just want you to take me away from here.'

For the whole journey to Alfred's flat, they sat in a silence that ached with half-begun thoughts and words neither of them knew how to express. Alfred's face was drawn into a severe frown as he continued to wish death on Gilbert and Matthew stared out of the window, sometimes welling up as he saw happy young couples walk by. He glanced at the back seat where he had put his bags and they seemed paltry in comparison to what he'd had. A whole flat full of possessions and the only ones that had held any value were right there, in two small cases. So lost in his thoughts was he that he took a moment to react when they drew up in the carpark behind Alfred's block of flats. Still not speaking, they went inside. Matthew managed to keep himself together until they were in Alfred's living room.

'I don't understand,' he said, crying again. 'How did I not see it? How could I not tell when he stopped loving me?' Alfred held him tightly. It had always been this way, protector and protected, ever since Alfred had forced his way screaming into the world and Matthew had silently slipped out a few minutes after. Even though they weren't identical, they had still forged a special bond together.

'I don't know Mattie, I don't know. But you're better off without him.' he said comfortingly.

'It took me so long to trust him and then he does this! I gave him everything and he threw it away like it was worthless. Well, maybe it was. I mean, I'm not really that good at keeping people interested and…' Alfred shushed him, seeing that his brother's low self-esteem was about to hit the bottom.

'That's not true. The fault lies with him, not you. He was lucky to have you and a fool not to see it. You'll find someone far better, I promise.' Matthew didn't believe him but let himself be soothed by the tender words. He had always had such problems with trusting people and the betrayal had destroyed all his unsteady confidence, smashed it to powder and left him with nothing.

That night, in the unfamiliar surroundings of Alfred's spare room, he got out his book and tried to focus on the beautiful lines that had always calmed him. But now the hopeless hymns to frustrated love rang horribly true. Tears clouded his vision and splashed down onto the page. He put the book away. He wouldn't get any reading done tonight.

….

**Author's Note: Hey guys, I hope you enjoy the new story! The 'main' story is going to start in Chapter 2, but I wanted there to be some background. Please don't hate me for making Prussia the bad guy – sometimes there's just got to be a villain and I do love him really. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Thank you all for reading, favouriting and following, and for the two very encouraging reviews. In this story, the narrative will mostly focus on Matthew, although there will occasionally be scenes that centre around other characters in order to allow the story to progress in the most seamless way possible. I hope you enjoy the new chapter!**

…

'Mattie, are you sure you'll be ok all alone?' Matthew rolled his eyes. Alfred had insisted on taking a couple of days off work to 'look after' him, although that had mostly consisted of sitting on the couch and scaring himself with horror videogames. Now, however, he had to go back, leaving Matthew alone for the first time since leaving Gilbert.

'I'll be fine, Al,' Matthew reassured him. He was eager to start working again, believing that the resumption of the other aspects of his life would follow in turn. 'Now just go and flip some burgers. Or eat them. I don't know what you do.' Alfred looked crestfallen.

'I'll have you know that I am in fact the _manager _of this particular restaurant…'

'McDonald's isn't a restaurant,' Matthew interrupted. They'd been having this argument in its various forms for years – Matthew would insult McDonald's, Alfred would retaliate by saying that French was a useless language… They never reached any sort of resolution. 'Mum always said you'd end up working there. Looks like she was right.' There was never any malice in these exchanges and indeed they had come to enjoy them in a strange way. Alfred laughed at the truth of his brother's words.

'Be seeing you then. And keep smiling, bro.' With these optimistic words, Alfred left the flat. Silence fell, cloaking Matthew and the empty flat. He stayed standing by the door for a moment, although he wasn't sure why, then retreated back into his new room where his unpalatable job was waiting for him.

The work was difficult – not in terms of the language used, although the book did contain copious amounts of street vernacular, but in the more profound sense. It caused Matthew nothing short of suffering to see the French language, the language of love, the language that had been used to topple a monarchy, the language of some of the most exquisite books ever written, used in this ugly way to create a facile, sensationalist storyline. He felt like the language was being done a disservice – worse, he felt like he was aiding and abetting in this crime. He was saved from this self-flagellation by the sound of his ringtone. It made him jump, and he prayed that it wouldn't be Gilbert. A quick look at the caller ID told him that it was even worse. It was Ludwig, and not only was Ludwig his boss at the translation agency, he was also Gilbert's brother.

'Hello?' Matthew said, his voice coming out as a strangled squeak. His ears rang and buzzed with the tense silence. He had no idea of how much Ludwig knew about the break-up, if indeed he knew anything at all. It wouldn't have been the first time that Gilbert had hidden things from people.

'Hello, Matthew.' Ludwig cleared his throat, negotiating the unfamiliar territory of emotions, 'I'm sorry about you and Gilbert.' Matthew felt like he should respond somehow but had no idea what to say. He could barely muster an 'mm' of acknowledgement. Ludwig continued. 'But that's not why I'm calling. I have a job for you.'

'I'm already working on…'

'I know that. But I don't think the jobs you've been getting reflect your level of skill. I understand that you enjoy the work of Pierre Dubois.' Matthew gripped the phone tighter, feeling it almost fall out of his hand that was suddenly slick with sweat.

'I do,' he whispered, his heart suddenly racing and stomach churning.

'He's finally agreed for his poetry to be translated into English and I've secured us the contract. I want you to do it. And before you ask, it's not because I feel sorry for you. It's because of your talent.' Matthew was on the verge of fainting. He raised a shaking hand to his mouth.

'Really? Isn't there anyone better? I don't know if I'll be able to. I mean, he uses very complicated language and…' Ludwig sighed. He always found Matthew's self-deprecation to be a little annoying.

'For God's sake Matthew, you're completely fluent. You're the best French to English translator we have. It's only your inexperience that's stopped me from giving you something like this before. If you say no, I'll have to give it to someone else and they'll probably absolutely mangle it. You have a true gift with words. I don't think it's a coincidence that your translated books get better reviews over here than the originals do in France. So will you take it on?'

'Yes. I suppose I will,' Matthew replied at length.

'Excellent,' Ludwig said, sounding relieved. 'He's told me that he wants to contact you himself. You can expect an email within a few days.'

…..

_Dear Mathieu,_

_I am very pleased to hear that you have agreed to translate my work into English. As you are doubtless aware, I do not make a habit of going out in society but at the same time I do not feel that online contact is sufficient for me to make clear what I want done. It is for this reason that I request that you visit me for a few weeks this summer – exact dates can be arranged later. I am a firm believer in face-to-face communication, although I have had very little of that over these past few years. Please reply promptly and inform me of when you can come, for I have no time constraints myself. I also ask that you delete this message once you have read it and that you do not save the address in your contacts. I do not wish to be bombarded with questions from intrusive journalists._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Pierre Dubois_

Matthew finished slowly reading the email aloud, translating as he went for Alfred's benefit. He turned to his brother with mounting apprehension.

'Al, I can't possibly go to France. I can't meet him. He'd be so disappointed. He'd probably choose someone else. I'm just too shy.' Matthew's frequent attacks of nerves caused him to speak in short, disjointed sentences, and the email had triggered a particularly bad one. Alfred shook his head.

'Mattie, this is just what you need. Look, it's time away from all these people and places, all these memories. And it's a holiday. You've always wanted to do this, I know you have.' he exhorted him. Matthew continued to stare bleakly at the laptop screen, his fingers itching to craft a confident reply but his mind in a flux of indecision. He had wanted this for so long but now that it was within reach, all his doubts came rolling in like stormclouds, blotting out the sun of opportunity. Whatever great things 'Pierre' was expecting of him, he wouldn't get them. Nevertheless, he couldn't very well refuse, not when he'd already promised Ludwig. Besides everything else, he'd be out of a job if he backed out. Hesitantly, he began to type. Alfred craned his neck to see over his shoulder, squinting as if doing so would magically make him understand the words.

'I hope you're saying yes,' he commented. Matthew nodded, too nervous to say anything. the Alfred was relieved. 'Awesome!' he cried, giving Matthew a fraternal backslap.

Matthew tensed up at the inadvertent echoing of Gilbert's favourite word. The carefully constructed French sentences he had been writing slipped from his mental grasp and tears boiled up in his eyes. For good or ill, he missed his boyfriend – not his infidelity or the frustrating indifference of their last few months together, but the way he'd been before. He had spent all his rage days ago and now was left with only a horrible fragility, a feeling of being hollowed out.

'Al, is it… is it wrong for me to miss Gilbert?' he asked, hoping that the name wouldn't provoke Alfred's vengeful ire. 'Not the bad stuff. But the way he used to make me pancakes and call me 'Birdie' and buy all those flowers. It's just strange to be alone after being with him for so long.' Alfred struggled to think of something diplomatic to say. He didn't want to upset Matthew further but nor did he want to seem cold.

'It's ok to feel sad about being alone, but you'll find someone else,' he murmured. 'Someone who'll treat you better.' Matthew looked up at him, his face reddened by crying.

'The thing is, Al,' he replied, a rare note of bitter cynicism creeping into his voice. 'I don't want to. I can't go through that again. I can't risk going through it.' Alfred, ever the light-hearted one, felt foolish and thoroughly out of his depth.

'But you are going, right?' he managed to ask. He knew that Matthew's grimly determined nod was the best answer he could expect under the present circumstances.

….

Roderich stood in the spacious living room of his flat, not quite sure what he'd come in for. He sighed to himself and tried to smooth down his stubborn lock of hair that always stood up. He'd been a wreck for the last few days, ever since receiving a call in the early hours of the morning that revealed that he had a rival in love, and one who had a far stronger claim to Gilbert's affections than he did. He tugged at the lace of his shirt cuffs, reprimanding himself for languishing like this. Really, he told himself, he ought to be happy. He had a large, well-appointed flat in a nice area, bought for him by his parents, minor members of the old Austrian aristocracy. He had a job he loved, organising concerts, and the luxury of plenty of free time to play his piano. But that wasn't enough, not any more.

He looked down at his elegant, musical hands, the long fingers of which could coax a melody out of all but the most tuneless piano. He turned them over slowly, half-wondering if he would see dirt ingrained in the lines of his palms. Every inch of him felt sordid and polluted and every glimpse he caught of himself in the mirror when he was fixing his hair or tying up his cravat reminded him that he had been reduced to a body, a mere instrument for Gilbert's adultery. He would never have suspected it, not in a thousand years. Their love had given him so much joy: it had imbued his music with sincere emotion, made even the most turgid day enjoyable, had him checking his phone for messages every couple of minutes, like a giggling teenage girl. Yes, it had been perfect. Now every memory he had was retroactively ruined by the knowledge that all this had been going on behind someone else's back. Every night they had spent together someone else had spent wondering where Gilbert was. Every time Gilbert had taken him on a date, he was choosing not to take someone else. He was finished with Gilbert now, that was for sure. He closed his eyes behind his glasses as the excruciating memory of their last meeting washed over him…

'_I can't believe you would do this to me, Gilbert! You used me. You made me complicit in that disgusting act, that… God, I can't even say it.' _

'_Dammit, Roddy, you're totally overreacting! We had fun, didn't we? Besides, he's left me now, so now we can do whatever we want, guilt-free.' Roderich had begun to cry then, despondency overwhelming him._

'_That's not the point. That was never the point. Just go. Please. I can't bear to see you again. But before you do, give me his number. I want to talk to him. I want to apologise, since I know you never will.'_

He blinked a few times, clearing his mind of the painful recollection. He reached into his pocket and extracted the fragment of paper with Matthew's number on it. It was time to set things to rights.

…

The sound of his phone ringing distracted Matthew from the hockey game playing on TV. He felt a stab of apprehension as he wondered whether it was Ludwig, coming to his senses and rescinding his offer. He sincerely hoped it wasn't, having already confirmed dates and booked his Eurostar ticket. He frowned in puzzlement as he saw that the number wasn't in his contacts.

'Um… Hi?'

'Hello,' Roderich began. 'I know I'm probably the last person you want to talk to right now but I just want to reiterate that I'm so truly sorry for what happened. I never had any idea about what was going on. I've got rid of Gilbert. I made him give me your number so I could say sorry. There was just no excuse for what he did to you.' Matthew was surprised and touched. It was rare that anyone bothered to consider his feelings.

'Thank you. But you don't need to be sorry. He hurt you as well. Please don't feel like you were responsible. I'm getting over him. I'll be off to France in a few days, just for a bit of a holiday.' Roderich said nothing for a moment. Matthew wondered what he was doing, what he was thinking.

'Oh, that's nice. Enjoy yourself.' There was another pause. 'I don't suppose I'll ever talk to you again.' he said softly, in the soft, sad voice of one who has been truly crushed.

'No, I don't suppose you will.' Matthew murmured in response.

'Goodbye, then.'

'Goodbye.' Roderich hung up as soon as the conversation was over but Matthew remained sitting rigidly in position, the toneless beep from the disconnected call needling his eardrum. He felt liberated, cut free from the net of lies and misery that had bound him and finally able to float free on the current of life.

…

London sped by on all sides, an unbroken line of back gardens merging into a single blurred hedgerow. As he got further and further from home, his excitement diminished and worrisome misgivings crowded into the space it left. When Alfred had dropped him at St Pancras that morning, everything had seemed bright. The buoyant feeling that his conversation with Roderich had given him had still been fresh in his mind, along with the thrill that always came with going on holiday. Alfred had seen him off, comically waving a white handkerchief and yelling cheerful goodbyes in a ridiculous falsetto voice. Sometimes, Matthew mused, it was as though Alfred had sucked all the confidence out of him while they were still in the womb and kept it all for himself.

He glanced up and saw that the city had given way to the flat fields of Kent. It had begun to rain, a muzzy English drizzle. Bored, he picked up his book and began to wonder about the man behind it. He tried to guess the reason for the poet's seclusion. Something to do with love, that was certain. A break-up, perhaps? Or maybe a death? Matthew scanned the pages, searching for clues.

'_I will remember you, and be glad that you cannot forget' _That was his favourite line, one that had caused scholars all over the Francophone world untold anguish as they tried to decode it. The rocking of the train was soothing, and he fell asleep still wondering at the meaning.

….

Matthew lugged his heavy suitcase over the uneven streets of the small French town. A message from 'Pierre' had requested that he travel to the stipulated address on foot, rather than enlisting the services of a taxi. This was irritating in the extreme, and drove Matthew half-mad on account of the fact that his case would catch in the cobbles every few steps. It stuck again and he hauled it out of the rut, hissing 'Maple leaf' as he did so and just about biting back a more expressive word. He had had enough. He had endured a long wait in the sweltering Parisian heat as he waited for the rickety provincial train, then been battered all the way to his destination by the jolting of the old carriage as it went along the warped tracks.

He checked the address again. Yes, he was going the right way, but he seemed to be going into a bad part of town. The light was fading and the shadows were growing thicker in corners and alleys. High up on a wall, he spied the sign of the street where he was supposed to be. It looked fairly run-down and as he went along it, he felt a growing sense of foreboding. There were only a few street lights and the reassuring noise of people had faded to nothing. Only a few of the windows here were lit and most were in the dusty darkness of abandonment. The house to which he had been summoned was similar to all the others in both its architectural style and in the way that it looked utterly empty. There must have been some mistake, surely, but the town was far too small to have two streets of the same name. He knocked cautiously at the door, just in case the poet really did live in such total squalor, but there was not so much as even a flicker of life. He huddled in the doorway, beginning to feel nervous. The darkness was by now almost total, and he had no idea of what to do.

The time passed in a haze of terror. Matthew shivered, his thin hoodie offering no protection against the chill of the night. A few people walked by, looking askance at him as they went. Two groups of drunken revellers passed, swearing jubilantly at each other and Matthew, who shrank back even further, pressing a hand to his chest in a futile effort to calm his fitful heart. A man tried to approach him, only retreating when he screamed. A woman asked him if he was alright, he nodded and said yes he was, he was just waiting for a friend. He had been there for hours. He was shivering and hungry and it was only the fear coursing through him that kept him awake. He didn't dare call Alfred. He didn't want him to worry about him anymore. A car whooshed by in near-silence, its driver peering out of its darkened interior at Matthew as he passed. Another hour elapsed, making it two in the morning. Another car came, but this time it slowed. Not only that, it came to a halt. The door opened. The driver emerged. Matthew screamed.


	3. Chapter 3

Matthew's scream did nothing to deter the man who continued to approach him. He pressed himself further and further back into the moist, crumbling bricks as if they could somehow protect him. He wrapped his arms around himself, his glasses misting up with the vapour of his panicked breathing. The man took another step forward, then he spoke, the familiarity of the voice jarring in Matthew's ears.

'Are you Matthew Williams?' the man asked, sounding almost as nervous as Matthew himself. That voice… It was one Matthew had heard so many times before, trickling through his earphones on a quiet evening as he recited the words alongside the poet. It was Pierre Dubois.

'Yes,' was all he could say in his state of extreme terror mixed with a sudden dash of adulation for his idol. Then, out of concern for his own welfare. 'Do you live here?' The poet shook his head vehemently.

'Absolutely not! I apologise for bringing you here but I could not risk attracting the attention of probing gossips. I thought that both the place and the hour would discourage anyone with a little too much curiosity from loitering. But come, you must be freezing.' With that, he gestured to his car and began to walk towards it. Matthew followed him, the scraping of his suitcase on the ground gnawing at his persistent, exhausted headache. He was too tired to fully understand what he was doing but the distant corner of his brain that was still awake reminded him that he was about to get into a car with a man he'd never met before, in the middle of the night. He tried to dispel these thoughts, too tired to deal with any more worry for the one day.

Once they were in the car, the faint light emanating from the bulbs set into the ceiling allowed Matthew to take a decent look at the poet who took such care to keep himself hidden. He had bright blue eyes, a few shades darker than turquoise, blond hair with a slight wave to it that reached his jawbone and well-formed features. Matthew put his age at around thirty, about four years older than him. He was quite handsome, Matthew thought. He felt a stirring of something, which he immediately subdued. He had not forgotten his vow never to get involved with love again. That way lay only pain and disappointment. He was so completely drained that all he wanted to do was sleep but Pierre insisted on making conversation. And not just idle chat, either.

'So, Mathieu, are you in love?' Matthew winced at the intimacy of the question. He fumbled for something to say in reply without telling any of his story. After all, he mused, a man who hadn't been seen by anyone in years couldn't exactly expect others to be open books.

'Not right now, no. I guess I'm just waiting for the right person.' He looked awkwardly down at his delicate hands where they lay curled in his lap. He wondered how long the journey would take. All he wanted to do was go to bed, but the interrogation was unrelenting.

'Have you ever loved someone?' Matthew was about to blurt out the truth but stopped himself. He needed to have a secret or two of his own.

'A few caught my eye. Nothing ever really came of it.' He yawned. Fatigue was making his mind clumsy and he made a few linguistic mistakes. He turned to the window, hoping to stave off further inquiries, but without success.

'Do you have family?' Now he was on safer ground.

'Yes, a brother,' Wait, how did you say twin? _Jumeau_, that was it. 'A twin brother,' he amended once the word had come to him. Pierre smiled wistfully.

'I have no-one, alas. It is my greatest sorrow that I should be so alone in this world.' He paused. 'Mathieu, I feel that since you have agreed to work with me, I should tell you something.' Matthew turned to him, suddenly awake. 'My name is not Pierre Dubois,' the poet continued. 'Although I should imagine that you already know that. My name is Francis Bonnefoy. There is a reason why I do not use my real name, and I ask that you do not divulge this information to anyone.' Matthew nodded, feeling like a character in a fairytale, who only needed the villain's true name in order to destroy them.

'I won't tell anyone,' he promised. Pierre – no, Francis, it was Francis now – nodded and gave a tight smile. He went round a corner, then suddenly left the road and began to climb a narrow, uphill track. Matthew gasped as the house came into view.

He had been half-expecting some lowering Gothic mansion with a bell tower and bats flying in and out. Instead, the sight, though indistinct on account of the darkness, was far more pleasant. It was far from large, but it was a beautiful example of eighteenth-century style; unpainted bricks, twelve-paned windows and neoclassical columns on either side of the door. A small pile of broken stones off to one side caught Matthew's attention and he asked what they were. Francis sighed.

'Not all of the house survived the Revolution,' he explained, sounding as sad as if it had happened yesterday, rather than more than two hundred years ago. Inside the house, Matthew's expectations were again confounded. He had no idea what the home of someone so secretive might look like, although he had imagined something akin to a museum and with a maze of secret corridors and walled-up entrances. Far from it. The décor was old-fashioned but in a way that indicated that this was merely Francis's taste. Only one of the several doors was open but through it Matthew glimpsed a wooden dining table neatly stacked with magazines and several cabinets. He couldn't see all the way in but guessed that it was the kitchen. He yawned again and Francis gave a little start, seeming suddenly to remember both the time and his visitor.

'Mathieu! I am so sorry. I forgot that you have been travelling all day. Come, I will show you to your room.' They ascended the steep staircase, its boards marked by generations of shoes, and came to a small landing with more doors leading off it. Francis led Matthew to a small bedroom, neatly made up in readiness for his visit. Matthew thanked him, then, the moment he was alone, put on his pyjamas without bothering to fold his clothes away and climbed straight into bed. He fell asleep and dreamt of lost things: of a toy polar bear forgotten at the playground, a favourite hoodie left on the bus; of milky skin, hair like a shaft of moonlight and eyes the colour of garnets.

….

Francis lay awake in his own bed, his mind buzzing. He prayed that he hadn't been too rash in revealing his name so early on. The boy – no, not a boy; he was at least twenty-five, he just looked young – had seemed trustworthy, though understandably reluctant to reveal his romantic history. And there was something captivating in his shyness, something luminous in his vaguely feminine beauty… Francis forced himself to return to the issue at hand. If Matthew was ever tempted to tell the world about his true name, he would be absolutely ruined. He would be discovered.

….

Across the Channel, Roderich was still awake. He sat in his window seat, nimble fingers wrapped around a cup of tea, looking down at the deserted street below. He was beginning to recover, he realised with a mournful half-smile. His conversation with Matthew had removed the heavy burden of guilt and shame from his shoulders and prompted him to begin moving on. Nothing short of total erasure would do, so he had applied himself completely to the task of removing all traces of Gilbert. He had got a new phone with a new number so that his former lover could no longer reach him. He had gone through the flat with a fine toothcomb, putting every gift Gilbert had ever given him into one of those charity bags that always came through the post. He no longer played the music Gilbert had liked. It was a painful job, but a necessary one. He itched to play the piano, as he always did when struggling with emotions, but sighed as he realised that the neighbours would probably not appreciate loud and anguished Chopin at three in the morning.

His new phone beeped, signalling the arrival of a message. He picked it up, his smile widening and brightening as he saw it was Vash.

_Just thought I'd check you're ok. Still at work. I hate this job. V. _Roderich almost laughed. The prickly Swiss banker with his atrocious work-life balance would never have admitted to fancying him. They were just friends for now, but who knew where else it might lead. He let himself feel a moment's happiness. Life really was too short for moping, he thought as he began to type a response.

….

Matthew hadn't intended to sleep late on his first day on the job, but that was exactly what happened. He tried to cover his head with the bedspread as the sun rose higher and higher but eventually it sliced through the curtains directly onto his pillow and could no longer be ignored. He sat up with a sigh and squinted at the blurred, submarine world that was all he saw without his glasses. There was no way he could read the clock without them, so he put them on, still uncoordinated from sleep, which led him to almost poke his eye out in the process. He gasped when he saw that it was almost midday. What a great way to impress his new employer. He climbed out of bed and paused, standing in the middle of the room, unsure of what to wear. It was hot but he didn't want to seem unprofessional by appearing in shorts and T-shirt. Eventually, he settled on jeans and a short-sleeved shirt and went downstairs in search of Francis.

He found him in the kitchen, the door once again being open, and nervously hovered in the doorway until he was noticed. On seeing him, Francis immediately stuffed the piece of paper he had been writing on into his pocket and looked up somewhat guiltily.

'Ah, Mathieu, you are awake! Do not worry about the time; it is my own fault that you were kept from sleep so long last night. Once you have eaten I will show you around the house, then I have some errands to run, so you may spend the rest of the day however you wish.' Glad that he wasn't in any trouble, Matthew looked around to see what was available. It was all very French: croissants, pain au chocolat, thick crusty bread with jam and so on. He was hungry but took only a croissant, not wanting to seem greedy and not wanting to eat Francis out of house and home either. Francis seemed ill-at-ease in his presence. He didn't take out his piece of paper again, although he kept absently touching his pocket, and Matthew got the uncomfortable impression that he was waiting for him to finish.

Once Matthew had choked down his breakfast far more quickly than he would have liked, Francis stood up, signalling that it was time for the tour to begin. They went out, back into the hall that Matthew had seen the previous night, then Francis began to narrate.

'As you are doubtless aware, I appreciate my solitude. You will find that some of the rooms in this house are locked and other rooms, although not locked, have drawers or cupboards that are. You may go into any open room and into the garden. There is nothing to interest you in the other parts of the house.' he said cryptically, then stepped forward to open the first door. It led to a small living room with a comfortable-looking couch and a TV on the wall. Matthew was a little surprised to see the incongruous piece of modern technology, then chastised himself for being so. There was a difference between being reserved and living in a complete time warp. He nodded and smiled at the appropriate moments during the rest of the tour but found that he was far more fascinated, and not a little perturbed, by the idea of the locked rooms. He was impatient for Francis to leave so that he could have a look around, but then yet another thought struck him.

'How can you go out if you don't want to be seen?' he asked, cursing himself as he realised how intrusive the question sounded and sure enough, Francis appeared to tense up for a moment.

'I do not go far,' he said at length, apparently cautious not to reveal much. 'I only go to the village at the bottom of the hill. The people there have never heard of me, so I do not have to fear being recognised. If any of them knew my voice, I would dismiss it as a coincidence. A voice is not enough evidence to declare a person's identity with any sort of certainty.' He shook himself. 'Speaking of which, I should be gone.'

….

The walk downhill was short but still left Francis with plenty of time to think. He couldn't quite recall what had made him want to have his poetry translated, still less what had made him bring a visitor to his house after a good four years of self-imposed loneliness. And he was lonely, deeply so, but he had reasons to keep himself to himself. He often read, with some amusement, the speculations of journalists and critics about who he might be and about what had inspired his work. None of them ever came near the truth and he found it very unlikely that any of them ever would. It wasn't through any sort of affectation or calculated mystique that he hid himself away, but because his security depended on it. The revelation of his identity, he thought to himself, would lead to the unpalatable revelation of several other aspects of his past.

Nonetheless, Matthew's question had bothered him. It had given voice to something he would have preferred to ignore: the fact that his position was untenable. It could only be a matter of time before he was found out, but perhaps he had allowed his fear of being caught for what he had done blow the original deed out of proportion. No, he told himself firmly. This isolation, this unhappiness – these were fair punishment for what he had done. They were his penance for his shameful conduct. But if he was ever discovered – and this was what frightened him – he would face censure from far more people than himself.

…..

Matthew waited anxiously near the door until he could no longer hear Francis's footsteps on the path, then waited another ten minutes to be sure that the poet wouldn't return for something he'd forgotten. When he was finally certain it was safe, he jumped up and rushed upstairs, eager to find out what was hidden in the house. He tested every door at least twice; pulling, pushing, rattling the handles. Once this was done, he checked all the drawers and cupboards. Only a few of these were locked and those that weren't slid open to show that they were either empty or full of innocuous things. Exploration over, he decided to unpack.

Locked, locked, locked… Ah, finally. At last, Matthew found a drawer in his dresser that actually opened. He was beginning to be hard pressed to find enough space to store all his clothes, even though he hadn't brought a great many. The temptation to look into the forbidden places, combined with the fear of what he mind find, was almost overwhelming as he went about folding up his various garments and putting them away. He stood up as the last T-shirt went in and the drawer slid shut with a smooth, well-oiled motion. He was at a loose end – disinclined to start work until Francis outlined his plans but without the distractions of a town anywhere near, he was on the verge of going downstairs to boredom-eat, his worst habit, when he suddenly remembered that he hadn't called Alfred as he'd promised. His brother was probably fit to keel right over from worry. He flicked his phone on and, sure enough, there were over twenty missed calls. Alfred never had the patience to write a text. Matthew sat down on his bed with an indulgent smile at his twin's concern, then began to listen through the messages. He realised with growing irritation that not all of them were from Alfred.

_Hey bro, if you could just tell the hero that you're doing ok, that would be really cool. _That was Alfred, no mistake, right down to the horror-film music playing in the background.

_Seriously dude, I'll have to come over there myself if you don't call. Also, this movie is really – OH MY GOD! The monster just… It just… _This one cut off abruptly, probably when Alfred had dropped his phone in terror. The next message was most certainly not Alfred.

_Mattie baby, please just take me back. Roderich won't talk to me and Ludwig is really angry with me. I'll do anything for you. I love you so much. I don't care where you are. I'll come all the way around the world if I can be with you. Please. I love you. _Matthew began to cry. Gilbert's voice had sounded so sincere, but there was no way he could ever trust him again, none. There was no way he could ever trust anyone. The tears came faster and the sobs were stronger. A couple of weeks ago he'd had a nice flat and a boyfriend who, though distant, had still seemed trustworthy. Now he was single, his trust and confidence in tatters, and in a stranger's house, a stretch of sea away from anyone who might help him. The place was full of secrets. He could feel them prodding at him, enticing him, cajoling him to open things that ought to be left shut. He was scared of what was being concealed. He picked up his phone again and deleted all the messages. He decided not to dignify Gilbert's pleading with a response, then called Alfred.

'Dude, finally! I was beginning to think that the French dude was some creepy kind of murderer with a huge beard!' Matthew smiled. Alfred always made him happy.

'No, Al, that was in that horror movie you watched. He's not dangerous. A little… eccentric. But not dangerous.' He knew Alfred would be sceptical, having an inherent distrust of people who spoke other languages, and wanted to set his mind at ease.

'What do you mean 'eccentric'?' Matthew hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. He knew Alfred would probably jump to conclusions based on whatever he heard, no matter how piecemeal the account. He chose not to mention the manner of his arrival or the business of the locks.

'Well, he talks in quite an old-fashioned way and his house is all done up in vintage style. He's nice, just not that sociable - but then, that's pretty obvious. You don't need to worry about me, Al, seriously. I'm having a great time.' This last was a lie, but seemed to reassure Alfred.

'Ok bro, well, I need to get back to work. Enjoy your trip!' He hung up, leaving Matthew at yet another loose end.

He decided to get out his book and have a flick through in preparation for the serious work ahead. His upset mood, brought on by Gilbert's desperate message, had returned and he pulled out the drawer containing his reading material with a little more force than was necessary. It shot out of the dresser and landed on the floor with a clatter. Matthew swore to himself. He had no idea how to get it back in. Inspecting the damage, however, he noticed something. The gap where the drawer had been allowed him to reach into the locked one beneath. Heart racing, he peered inside. If he had been expecting it to be full of gold or jewels or holy relics, he would have been disappointed – it was brimming with scraps of paper. He reached in and grabbed a handful, then paused. These things were locked for a reason. He was a guest – no, an employee – in Francis's house. He had no right to be searching through his drawers, said the metaphorical angel perched on his shoulder. The devil on his other shoulder, however, had Matthew's insatiable curiosity in his favour and it was he, as Matthew picked the first fragment from the bundle, who won the day.

Every single one of the pieces had been written on but they served only to deepen the mystery. On some of them there were drafts of poems. Matthew recognised the better ones, since they had been published, but the others were eye-wateringly dreadful. Francis was clearly self-taught as a writer. Another sheet had a list of dates from four years ago on it. Yet another bore a collection of synonyms for 'beautiful' and on the back 'unattainable'. One of the pages made him a little uncomfortable, covered as it was with disjointed sentences: not so much poetry as the ramblings of a madman.

_He hurts me… He is so beautiful… I wish… If he knew…_ There was more in the same vein. Matthew guessed that the source of his misery was some sort of unrequited love, but the dates and locked places gave him the disturbing feeling that the reason for Francis's seclusion was far less innocent than that. He would have read through the papers all day, but at that moment, he heard Francis's key in the lock and immediately a nervous sickness flooded his body. Frantically, he gathered the spoils of his raid and threw them back where they had come from, then manhandled the fallen drawer back into position, fervently praying the whole time that he wasn't making too much noise. His findings had confused and frightened him. What exactly had he got himself into?

…

**Author's Note: Hey guys! So, the 'mystery' element is really beginning to come through. I hope you enjoyed the chapter – I felt sorry for Roderich so I gave him his own little happy ending. If any of you think you've guessed the reason for Francis hiding away, do tell me in a review! I won't be able to reply, since that would spoil it, but it should be fun to see what everyone thinks. **


	4. Chapter 4

Francis sighed in exasperation and raked his fingers through his foppish hair. He had been staring at the same blank sheet of paper for over an hour and so far all he had to show for it was a few ink blots where he'd checked that his pen was working. The boy – no, he had to stop calling him that – Matthew was closeted in his room or downstairs somewhere. Francis didn't particularly care, preoccupied as he was with a far more pressing task: actually writing something. Part of the reason he'd wanted a translation was because he hadn't produced anything new in a long time and pragmatism had won over his deep-seated distaste for the English language, which he found coarse and ugly.

It wasn't for laziness or lack of trying that he was struggling, just that his inspiration had been fading of late. The sumptuous, sensual words and phrases that had once sprung so easily to his mind came less and less frequently and increasingly he was finding that all he was capable of crafting were hackneyed platitudes. He closed his eyes for a moment, summoning up the face whose memory and the emotions evoked by it had sparked and sustained three full poetry collections. Now the features were indistinct and the memory had lost its photographic quality. The eyes had burnt with a fierce light but although he could remember their colour, the exact exquisite hue was lost to him. He could once have imagined a thousand metaphors for them. No longer. So too was lost the precise sweep and fall of his hair. It was blonde, that was beyond debate, but he could no longer picture the way the darker, honey-coloured strands mingled with the lighter streaks of ash-blonde or the way his graceful hands had pushed it back from his intelligent forehead when it obscured whatever book he was reading. Francis sat for a moment, lost in his memories, but not even his most detailed recollection brought even the ghost of an idea to his frustrated mind. Truly, he thought, his muse had abandoned him. He was dredged out of his depression by a timid knock at his study door.

….

Matthew clasped his hands in front of him and hesitantly awaited a response to his knock. He hoped he hadn't disturbed anything important.

'Come in!' Francis called out at last and Matthew pushed the door open a crack, trembling.

'I'm really sorry to bother you but I need to check my emails, so I just need the WiFi password. Sorry.' His voice was weak. He didn't yet know the mysterious poet well enough to feel relaxed in his presence.

'Do you have your laptop with you?' Francis asked, making a great show of not being caught in the act of something. Matthew shook his head.

'I just need you to tell it to me.' he replied, wanting to cause as little inconvenience as was humanly possible.

'Bring it in and I'll do it for you.' Matthew was a little surprised at this reply. There was really no need for this. Maybe Francis didn't fully understand computers or something like that, he thought.

'No, it's fine, I can…' Francis's face darkened and he cut him off, his voice sharp.

'I said to bring it in. The password is very long and complicated. You would never remember it if I told you and it takes too long to dictate.' Shocked at this sudden change in mood, Matthew scuttled off to retrieve his device. When he returned, he handed it over to Francis, who took it without a word. Matthew watched him type with mounting bewilderment. Francis had claimed that the password was long and complicated but when he typed it in it seemed to be only six letters long. As soon as a connection had been made, he took it back, feebly thanking Francis for his trouble, and rushed back to his room, glad to be alone with his thoughts.

Opening his email account, he saw that there was nothing of note. He opened up Google, intending to while away a couple of hours looking at funny pictures, when an idea for a far more productive activity struck him. Not sure of what to expect, he typed in 'Francis Bonnefoy' and clicked the search button. Scrolling down the first page of results, he saw that the man might as well not have existed. His strategy for hiding was certainly working. Unaccountably disappointed at the lack of salacious gossip, he decided to try another tack and entered 'Pierre Dubois'. He wanted to see if any of the theories about the poet tallied with his own discoveries. The next hour passed in a haze of academic papers from just about every French university with a decent literature department.

_The tragic death of a lover… _That was a possibility. Perhaps whoever it was had been ill. Perhaps the list of dates had been nothing more than a list of appointments. 'He hurts me'. That had been written on the paper. Maybe watching the man decline had caused Francis pain. Nonetheless, Matthew dismissed the idea out of hand, for it did nothing to explain the reservedness that bordered on paranoia.

_An abusive relationship… _Again, a possibility. Maybe Francis had hidden for his own safety. The dates could be instances of violence or something of the sort. 'He hurts me' could well have had a purely literal meaning. Again, he dismissed the idea. Nobody, unless they were seriously damaged, wrote romantic paeans to someone who treated them so badly. Then again, maybe Francis really was that unhealthy.

_An unfaithful partner… _Matthew abruptly shut down his laptop. That last theory was far too close to home for his liking. Frustrated at his failure to get to the bottom of the riddle, he decided to seek further clues in the book.

…..

The next morning found Matthew sitting with Francis at his kitchen table, the former assiduously making notes, the latter, with expansive gestures, outlining his requirements for the translation.

'I have never liked the English language,' Francis declared forthrightly, seeming to forget that he was addressing a native English speaker. 'Spoken aloud, it is ugly. Written down, it is illogical. Think of a beautiful English word and there is an overwhelming probability that it will have come from French. I never stooped to learning it. Yes, everyone speaks it now, but I do not intend to leave my native land soon, and as such this inability on my part does not bother me.' Matthew found this a little arrogant but just nodded. He had a point, after all. Besides, the way Francis became so animated when talking about his favourite subject was endearing, almost attractive… Matthew felt a light colour rise in his cheeks and looked down at his paper, biting the inside of his cheek until it subsided. If possible, someone with a past as obscure as his was even less trustworthy than Gilbert. He couldn't allow his heart to be stolen and broken again.

Francis, thankfully, had not noticed Matthew's momentary discomfort and was still in full flow. He leaned forward, meeting Matthew's lavender eyes.

'You must understand that the French language is a delicate thing. A bad rendering of a line here, a slight mistranslation there, and the whole poem will be ruined. I expect the same amount of care to be put into the translations as I put into the originals.' Matthew shifted a little in his seat, uncomfortably pinned by Francis's intense blue gaze.

'I'll do my best. I've always liked your work, so it'll be nice to bring it to a wider audience.' He took a deep breath, preparing to ask the most tantalising question. 'And also, just out of curiosity, what exactly inspired you to write?'

Francis's reaction was as furious as it was immediate.

'Why is it necessary for you to know that?' he demanded through clenched teeth. He stood up in a single fluid motion, knocking his chair to the floor. Matthew also rose, fearing what would come next and choosing his words with caution.

'I meant only that, since the poetry will be translated, it would be useful to have some idea of their original meaning. I mean, some people are inspired by trees, or the movement of clouds across the sky or…' He was babbling and he knew it. Francis knew it too and cut him off for the second time in as many days.

'If you have read even a single one of my poems, you will know that I do not write silly pastoral scenes, the likes of which you have just described. Do you really think that, having spent so long in seclusion, I will suddenly tell everything to someone I have only just met? The cross I bear is a painful one but it is mine alone, and if you have an ounce of common sense in you, you will leave off your enquiries with immediate effect. Now, I suggest that you go and do the job you came here to do.' The poet formed every one of his words with clarity and poise. He did not shout but there was no mistaking the anger that was all the more terrifying for its being contained. Matthew fled upstairs, his heart almost breaking free of its bindings, it was hammering so hard.

He was worried that Francis might come and check up on him, so he got straight to work. He wondered what had happened to elicit such an angry response to his innocent question and tried to work out its connection to what was in the drawer. He flicked open his copy, figuring that he might as well begin at the beginning. Once armed with a notepad, pencil and dictionary, he began to read the familiar words. Within about two hours, he had a passable translation of the first poem, an English equivalent to Francis's ethereal French. Translation was a slow business, particularly as Matthew had never liked this poem and couldn't remember the last time he'd read it. He scanned the text of this first poem, looking for clues.

_Green eyes – a forest wherein lies/ The noble foreign splendour of a Finnish lake. _Ok, so the mysterious man had green eyes. Not the most useful information to aid him in his quest but it was a start. The mention of Finland gave him pause, but then he realised that someone with green eyes was unlikely to be Finnish and the description was almost certainly a metaphor.

_Unmoving and unmoved, my precious statue/ Why do you not turn your eyes to me? _Matthew gave a little gasp. This line was absolute gold. It made him almost certain that whatever love Francis had felt, it had not been returned – indeed, the object of his desires had probably not even been aware of it. One more phrase like it, he thought, and he would be totally convinced.

_Two words was all it took/ Two words and each one a dagger. _What could those words be? Only two of them, so it couldn't be 'I don't love you' or even 'I hate you.' Matthew frowned to himself, thinking of what could match the description. There was 'shut up' or 'go away' or 'stop it' but they didn't fit with the idea of Francis watching someone from afar. He sighed to himself. He wanted to stop being so nosy but couldn't help it. He'd heard Francis going outside a little while earlier and now decided to seize the opportunity to do some searching.

Once the drawer containing his things was on the floor again, Matthew eagerly shoved his hand into his treasure trove like a child at a lucky dip. He found, and took a closer look at, the list of dates. They were over a period of about six months, with anything from three days up to a week between them. He wondered what could have been going on that needed to be recorded. He dug deeper, finding more lists of words and then – what was this? – something that appeared to be a complete physical description. Not just a simple list either, but something observed with a poet's eye and written with a novelist's hand. Incidentally, Francis did have very beautiful handwriting, full of extravagant loops and flourishes that somehow matched his personality. Matthew settled down to read.

_He is not tall but is nonetheless slim and elegant - well-formed, like one of the beautiful young men so beloved of the Greeks. His hair is the colour of autumn wheat when in full fruit and falls over his eyes whenever he leans forward – a frequent occurrence, since he is always buried in some form of book or another. Unless he is not alone, but that is another matter. One might expect his brows to be the colour of his hair but in fact they are dark and striking, like smudges of charcoal. Do not mistake me; they do not diminish his beauty but in fact give him a look of maturity – I would otherwise have dismissed him as a boy. His eyes are flecked with shades of green, running from malachite to jade, and vast in their capacity for expression. Every smile marks his whole face, every studious frown creases all his features into an attitude of concentration. His hands appear gentle, almost womanly, but I sense that they have a strength to them, one that I long to experience for myself._

Matthew dropped the paper straightaway, blushing violently. He felt as if he had just had a glimpse into Francis's intimate diary and felt a stab of shame for intruding. The writing sounded like something from the eighteenth century, complete with its Classical reference, but this old-fashioned grandiloquence was one of the things that made Francis's work so appealing. It occurred to him that these were not first impressions but ideas gathered over a period of sustained observation. Matthew picked the page up again and turned it over. More lists of words, this time beautiful green things and various synonyms for 'gold'. He tried to imagine the young man and got a faint image of him in his mind, although according to Francis's rapturous writing, any attempt at imagining him would pale in comparison to the original. Inspired by this discovery, Matthew delved deeper into the drawer.

The next thing he withdrew was a small fragment – judging by its ragged edges, it had been torn from a notepad. The handwriting on it was different from what had been on the others. Matthew was intrigued and read the scrawled message.

_IOU the cost of one coffee. Can't believe I left my wallet at home! I promise to repay as soon as possible. Suppose I'd best do a signature so…_

_Arthur Kirkland_

So the elusive muse had a name. Furthermore, Matthew was sure that he and the man in the description were one and the same – there was no reason that Francis would have kept the scribbled note if its writer hadn't been important to him in some way. Now that he had the information in his possession, however, Matthew wasn't quite sure what to do. He felt horribly guilty about going around looking at other people's property and decided that he should leave off his quest, at least for now. He put the paper back in the drawer and shoved it back out of sight, then turned back to his work.

…..

Francis looked up as the whine and clatter of a bird's wings distracted him from his daydream. Sighing wistfully to himself, he returned his attention to the object clutched in his hands. A red wool scarf, with nothing to distinguish it from any other, save for who had owned it. The memory of the first time he had ever seen Arthur washed over him, too quick and too strong to be blotted out. He closed his eyes, hoping to summon up some of the emotion that had first moved him to poetry.

….

_It was a cool evening in late autumn. The chill of winter had not yet set in and there was just enough vestigial summer warmth to be out in a thin jacket. Nonetheless, the restaurant was empty, the only movement coming from the spiralling dust caught in the amber beam of the setting sun. Francis watched the slow progress of people up and down the high street and prayed that someone would come in soon and give him something to do. He was bored. All the tables were empty and the clinking of utensils in the kitchen sounded very far off. He flicked open his waiter's notepad and started doodling hearts in the corners of the pages, humming to himself as he did so. The creak of the door drew him out of his reverie._

'_Excuse me, do you serve coffee?' At the sound of an English voice speaking fluent French, Francis turned, only to be met by the sight of the most beautiful man he had ever seen. Every detail of him was perfect, but Francis wasn't moved to poetry yet. That had come much later. The first time he'd met Arthur, he had never previously put pen to paper. He had to force himself to stop staring at this angel's face long enough to answer._

'_Yes, yes we do. Could I not interest you in our dinner menu?' The man shook his head. _

'_No thanks. Just a coffee will be fine.' Shrugging, Francis led him to a table and tried to stop the fluttering of his heart. He took Arthur's order and was glad to be able to retreat and gather his thoughts while he made it. _

_When he returned to the table a few minutes later, he was carrying both the coffee and a pain au chocolat. Arthur looked up from his book, confused._

'_Oh, but I didn't order…' Francis stopped him with a smile_

'_It's complimentary. And by the way, what are you reading?' He was desperate to make conversation. Arthur smiled back._

'_Thank you. And it's Shakespeare – Twelfth Night, a fine play. Are you familiar with it?' Francis shook his head._

'_I have heard the name, but no more than that. I prefer the French novelists myself.' Arthur nodded, acknowledging Francis's opinion, then returned to his reading, signalling that the conversation was over._

_Later, once Arthur had left, Francis found that he had forgotten his scarf, casually draped over the back of his chair. Something – and Francis still didn't fully understand what it was – had made him pick it up and keep it for himself. He was besotted, that was the simple truth of it. He had fallen for Arthur at first sight. It was, therefore, with great joy that he reacted to Arthur's return. The man himself, however, was in less good spirits._

'_Sorry to bother you, but I forgot my scarf and I've been traipsing all over the town looking for it. You wouldn't by any chance have seen it, would you?' Francis shook his head and tried not to draw attention to the tell-tale bulge in his pocket where his plunder was hidden._

'_No, I'm afraid not. I'm sorry.' Arthur bit his lip and blinked hard a few times._

'_Sorry to be getting so emotional,' he apologised. 'It's just that my boyfriend gave it to me. He'll be upset when he finds I've lost it.' He paused, something seeming to occur to him. 'Incidentally, if you do see it, would you mind calling me?' He pulled out a notepad and wrote down his name and number. Francis just about managed to hide his glee._

…

'My boyfriend.' Those two little words should have sent him a clear message, Francis thought to himself, a signal to desist in his attentions because they could never be reciprocated. If only, he mused despairingly, if only he had.

….

**Author's Note: So it was Arthur! (Though I'm guessing most of you would have guessed that). It was fun reading your guesses about what Francis did, and I can promise that the truth will gradually be revealed over the next few chapters! **


	5. Chapter 5

Matthew ran a finger over the dimpled cover of the gilt leather notepad. He concentrated on breathing in and out, clearing his mind. This was his last chance to turn back and pretend that he had never found any of the things in Francis's drawer. He had a sense of foreboding, a strange and irrational feeling that if he read opened the book and read whatever was inside then he would be crossing some sort of boundary. The notebook was the point of no return. He took another breath, then turned to the first page. It was a diary, he found, and a revealing one at that.

_I had the pleasure of seeing him again today. He was as beautiful, and as oblivious, as ever. I know by now what sort of coffee he likes, and he has begun to insist on paying for the cakes I give him. Sometimes I wonder how it is possible that he doesn't see how much I feel for him. How can he not notice my love for him when I feel it all-consumingly?_

These early entries were all in the same vein – hopelessly crushing on Arthur. From the context, Matthew guessed that Francis had been working as a waiter of some sort and that Arthur was a frequent customer. As he continued to read through, however, he found that the diary took on a more sinister tone.

_I don't think he suspects me – at any rate, I hope he doesn't. Yesterday was close. He heard the flash, I am certain of it. He stood looking straight at where I was for a long moment without seeing me, then drew his coat a little more tightly around himself and walked off. I must exercise a little more discretion._

And another one, dated a few days later...

_I have not seen my angel in a while. Normally scarcely a day goes by without him visiting. Sometimes he brings that other in with him, but I can forgive him that. I could forgive him anything. It is my fervent prayer that, should I ever be discovered, he will forgive me. I hope that nothing has happened to him. He stopped responding to the messages a while ago. I shall have to get my blessed release some other way, I suppose. _

Matthew had begun to guess that Arthur was with someone else but the next, venomous entry confirmed it. Raving and incoherent, it made Francis seem half-mad.

_He brought his lover with him today. The sight of them together filled me with such pain and longing that even the mere memory turns my stomach. The way he looks at him so adoringly makes me feel something beyond mere jealousy. There is nothing I would not do for him, nothing. I would suffer every torment of Hell to be with him, and yet he chooses that boy over me. I can only hope that my beautiful one will soon tire of whatever the boy's charms are and will see me and see the way I love him, and be mine. The boy has got him to love him effortlessly, and that is the worst thing of all. My love, my dearest one, is with another, and I cannot pretend to myself that he would rather be somewhere else because he has chosen this of his own free will._

Matthew closed the diary, silencing its malicious voice, and tossed it back into the drawer. He was shaking. A horrible realisation began to creep over him. Francis hadn't simply been in love. He had been totally and irredeemably obsessed.

…..

Out in the garden, it was beginning to get dark. Francis barely even noticed it. The initial memory had opened the floodgates for a host of others. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine Arthur's face; he feared that its finer contours were forever lost to him. Instead, the image that rose unbidden to his mind was that of Matthew. He scrunched up his face, trying to make the unwanted picture disappear, and slipped into another recollection.

….

_It had been precisely thirteen days since Arthur had first visited the restaurant – Francis was keeping count. In that time, he had had coffee there four times, always hunched over some sort of book. One day it was Shakespeare, another Keats, another Shelley. He was a great lover of poetry, that much Francis had gathered. He had looked up the poets online and struggled to read their work and pronounce the foreign words. None of them meant anything to him, but he took pleasure in imagining Arthur's fluent tongue enunciating every syllable in its intended accent. He had made conversation a few times and at one point – he couldn't remember the exact circumstances – given his full name and received Arthur's in return. Arthur Kirkland. A very English name, Francis thought. A strong name, redolent of the most famous Arthur, the king of a thousand stories. His Arthur was most certainly a worthy heir to the title._

_On the fourteenth day, however, a new character entered this latter-day Arthurian legend. It came in the unassuming form of Kiku, a quiet young Japanese man. He would have meant nothing to Francis in any other situation. They would have passed each other on the street without a second glance. The only thing that set him apart was the fact that he was Arthur's boyfriend. Arthur had mentioned him to Francis a few times, but seeing him in the flesh opened the wounds anew. Francis felt the ache in his heart the moment the couple stepped in, loosely holding hands and casting shy smiles at each other. He had never before felt such a powerful desire to be in someone else's shoes. When he went to take their order, Arthur introduced him to Kiku, and it was torture for Francis to go through the motions of social interaction when he felt like dying right there and then. He was standing right by the table, close enough to lean down and kiss Arthur if he wanted to – and God knew how much he wanted to, but he had to resist. He had to suppress his attraction, suppress it because he knew it was impossible to act on it._

_The evening was busy, an early winter Saturday when people were glad to be retreating from the cold for a couple of hours. Francis hardly had a moment to himself, particularly as he was the only waiter left after Lovino had returned to Italy, complaining about how the French just didn't know about food. Nonetheless, he found time to cast frequent glances over to Arthur and Kiku. They were deep in conversation with each other. Arthur was becoming animated, his expressions elastic and his hands moving like a puppeteer's as he illustrated whatever point he was making. Something he said made Kiku laugh and Francis had to turn sharply away to stop another acidic surge of jealousy._

…

That evening had been the first time Francis had seen them together and the intensity of emotions it provoked had surprised him. He made a sound of despair as the next memory assumed its position at the forefront of his mind. Things had started to get out of hand a little after that date, and Francis couldn't even think about the subsequent events without feeling a violent attack of shame. He had done such an awful thing, something unforgivable.

…..

'_I think you're beautiful.' The unsent message glowed on the screen of Francis's phone. His thumb hovered over the button that would launch it into cyberspace, and he had a palpable feeling that his next actions would be of great importance. He had kept Arthur's phone number – and the scarf he was supposed to call about if it ever turned up – since their first meeting. Now, he had the idea of contacting Arthur. He wouldn't give his name, of course - he just wanted the man to know that he had an admirer. It would be completely innocent, Francis told himself – after all, who didn't love to receive compliments? It wouldn't be anything untoward. With one last little burst of resolution, he pressed 'send'._

_About an hour later, his phone buzzed with an incoming reply. Hands trembling with anticipation, he read the message._

'_Thanks, but who are you?' Francis hesitated. He knew this would have to be conducted anonymously._

'_It doesn't matter. I'm just someone who likes you.' He restrained himself from writing more, careful not to give away a single detail of his identity. The next reply was instant._

'_I have a boyfriend. I don't need anyone else.'_

'_I'm not going to do anything. I just like your eyes. Your boyfriend is lucky to have you.' Francis didn't know what he was doing but he got such pleasure out of coaxing a response out of Arthur that he carried on regardless. After sending that third message, there was a long moment of stillness, then the reply came through._

'_Please stop this. I don't know who you are. Just leave me alone.'_

…_.._

And Francis had left him alone, at least for a little while. But once he had seen Arthur again and satisfied himself that he was not a suspect, the lure of this contact became too much to resist. He hated himself for doing it, but he so loved being able to tell him the things he couldn't say aloud that he kept it up. Very soon, everything had got out of hand.

….

Matthew wasn't quite sure what to do. He needed to get out of the house, that was certain. He needed to be outside, somewhere he could breathe easily without suffocating on secrets and lies. He was nervous about approaching his host after the events of the morning, so he scribbled a quick note to say that he was going down to the village and went outside. The walk was pleasant, although the fading light led him to stumble a few times on the uneven country track, and soon he found himself in the modest village square with its pond, benches and war memorial marked with too many names. He sat down on the bench nearest the pond – he had always loved the water – and slowly drew his phone out of his pocket. He wanted to talk to someone, and the only person he could think of was Alfred. Switching it on, he saw that there was one last message from Gilbert. Listening to it, he sighed as he realised it was obviously the result of drunk-calling.

'Hey there, Princess Matthew,' it began mockingly. 'Just to _inform _you that _for your information, _I don't need you anymore, so ha ha ha! I've found someone _better _and he's a lot more _awesome _than you!' It ended there, abruptly. Matthew set his mouth in a grim line as he felt the last vestiges of fondness and pity for Gilbert evaporate. Deleting the message, he tapped the screen, bringing up his contacts list, and called Alfred, who answered immediately.

'Hey baby bro! What can the hero do for you?' Judging by the background noise, he was watching yet another horror film. Either that or something about aliens.

'It's about Francis,' he replied, haltingly and at length.

'Who?' Matthew belatedly remembered that Alfred didn't know Francis's real name.

'The French poet dude. I think I've found out why he's so antisocial.'

'Seriously? Did he kill someone or something like that? I bet he's got the body under his bed or something!' Matthew grimaced. He should have known that Alfred wouldn't understand.

'No, not quite. But I think he was in love with someone. Not just that, I think he was stalking him.' There was a pause and the music stopped suddenly. Alfred's voice returned, rising several notes in his shock.

'What? Oh my God! You need to get out of that place and fast! That's seriously creepy.' Matthew was inclined to be a little more sympathetic.

'It's not creepy. I think it's quite sad in a way. He loved this man so much that he couldn't love anyone else. He loved him so much that it sent him almost mad. I feel sorry for him.' Matthew knew he was fighting a losing battle in trying to make Alfred see things from his point of view.

'Mattie, that's not sad. It's just weird. Imagine if you'd never got over Gilbert. Not only that, but you'd never even tried to get over him and you just sat around all day dreaming about him even though you knew he didn't love you anymore. What this poet guy is doing isn't romantic, it's unhealthy.' Suddenly, Matthew didn't want to talk anymore.

'I should have guessed you wouldn't understand,' he said darkly, before hanging up.

….

For the next five days, Matthew managed to put his nose to the grindstone and carry on with work. He and the poet had reached an uneasy truth: no more questions from Matthew, no more outbursts from Francis. Each evening, he laid out his day's work, reading it out so that Francis, with his ear attuned to rhythm, could be certain that the original poetic metre had been retained. Each of them had, in his own way, come to enjoy these times together. Francis in particular was beginning to find that the English language was perhaps less ugly than he had first assumed. It had a dark strength to it that bespoke its Germanic roots – quite a different sort of beauty from the Latinate elegance of French, but pleasing nonetheless. Matthew found that he was greatly enjoying the privilege of working with his favourite poet, particularly now that Francis was beginning to control his artistic temperament a little better. They worked well together; one a poetic genius, the other a conduit for that genius. They were, one could say, becoming friends.

It was on the sixth day, when Francis was again out, that Matthew decided to expand his search. He had emptied the first drawer and there was nothing more to find in there, so he hit upon the idea of picking a lock. The idea had stolen uninvited into his mind, and he was unsure what to do with it once it was there. There was something fundamentally wrong about breaking into things so deliberately closed, his angel counselled him. There was, however, his devil retaliated, also something wrong about pursuing someone already taken and then allowing the obsession with said someone to dominate your life. Now Matthew was kneeling in front of his chest of drawers, unbent paperclip in hand, agonising over the best course of action. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to imagine what his bold brother would do. Alfred would be shoving his makeshift lock-pick into the keyhole without a second thought, he realised. Matthew swallowed the fear rising in his throat. He needed to know what was going on, for good or ill.

He hadn't picked a lock since he was an impressionable child under Alfred's dubious influence but the drawer sprang open easily. He slid it out and felt a pang of disappointment as he saw that it was far less full than the other one. This one contained only a large envelope, with none of the confetti scraps of paper piled in right up to the top. He picked up the envelope and found that it was stiff, as was whatever was inside. Not just ordinary paper then. He opened it, and his mouth dropped open at what he saw. Photos, clearly taken from a distance, and clearly taken without the willing participation of the subject. So this was Arthur Kirkland.

In the first picture Matthew looked at, he was walking along an avenue, his dark coat swirling behind him. He was looking in the direction of the photographer, a worried frown creasing the face that Francis had found so beautiful. A memory came to him, something he had read. A diary entry, to be exact…

_I don't think he suspects me – at any rate, I hope he doesn't. Yesterday was close. He heard the flash, I am certain of it. He stood looking straight at where I was for a long moment without seeing me, then drew his coat a little more tightly around himself and walked off. I must exercise a little more discretion._

He took the next picture off the pile. Arthur again, this time standing in the doorway of a small house, reaching up to unlock the door. In the third, he was walking hand-in-hand with a young, boyish Japanese man. So this was the 'lover' of whom Francis had been so insanely jealous. There were other pictures too. Here was Arthur standing at a bus stop; here he was going into a shop; here he was with his boyfriend, bending to pick up something he had dropped. The pictures gave Matthew chills. Francis must have been a master of subtlety not to be caught or even suspected.

It was in this position – kneeling, with the photos spread around him – that Francis found Matthew when he walked into the room a few minutes later. For a split second, all they could do was look at each other, blue eyes meeting violet, neither one sure of what to say. Then Francis shattered the tranquillity in a blur of sound and movement.

'Mathieu! I did not ask much of you, not at all. I asked only that you keep away from the things that were locked, and what do I find? You, one in whom I confided, breaking the locks on my drawers. I said that there was nothing in them to interest you but perhaps I was wrong, for you appear to be fascinated. I should have known better than to place even a modicum of trust in anyone. I should have stayed the way I was. What madness came over me when I brought a stranger to my house, I do not know, but I have certainly paid handsomely for my mistake. I can only hope that the magnitude of what you have done dissuades you from any further detective work. That, or the threat of total destruction of your professional reputation. A great shame, since you are an excellent translator, although perhaps somewhat lacking in the qualities of a friend.'

The tirade at an end, Matthew stood up, his own anger rising against that of Francis.

'And who can blame me for looking around? I only…' He didn't know how to go on, how to justify himself. It didn't matter anyway. Francis had left the room, leaving Matthew alone with all his impotent rage and two drawers full of exposed secrets. Soon, however, his anger subsided into shame, and his rare confidence into terror, as he began the long wait for the poet's return.


	6. Chapter 6

For at least half an hour after Francis's departure, Matthew stayed exactly where he was. The spoils of his investigation lay ignored on the floor as he sat perched on the edge of his bed, looking down at his hands and humming tunelessly, all the while trying to pretend that what had just happened had been in his imagination. No such luck. He was deeply ashamed of himself, although it was a little late for that. The damage had been done. No apology, no matter how sincere, could change the hard facts of his discovery, nor its implications. After a while, however, a streak of recklessness began to emerge in him. Francis held all the cards for now, and Matthew was fairly certain that he would be dismissed. It couldn't, therefore, make very much difference if he took his search a little further. Disinclined to go picking any more locks, he picked up his laptop and opened Google. He had some research to do. He wanted to know the full story of what had really happened, or not happened, between Francis and Arthur.

Refusing to allow himself time to hesitate, he typed in 'Arthur Kirkland.' At one click, his screen was flooded with news articles from four years ago. He clicked on the first one he saw and he felt the colour seep out of his face as he read.

_25-year-old Arthur Kirkland has reported being the victim of a persistent stalker to the police. He says that the person, believed to be a man, has been sending him unsettling text messages and taking photographs of him. He has also received letters in the post, although these are typed, meaning that handwriting analysis cannot be used. _

Matthew felt his mouth drop open. No wonder Francis couldn't reveal his name. He was clearly wanted for his acts. Beside the story was a link to a video of a statement made by Arthur for a local news channel. Matthew clicked on it, and it loaded slowly, giving him ample time to digest the troubling new information. When it finally began to play, he was unnerved by the accuracy of Francis's description – all the photos had been long-range, but now he had a chance to see Arthur up close. He, and his boyfriend, seemed ill-at-ease in the studio, uncomfortably buttoned up in suits. Neither of them could sit still for a single moment. Arthur was wringing his hands, creating a miniature storm of movement as he started speaking. He made his statement without notes, but it was clearly rehearsed, and although his French was perfect, his English accent made him sound uneducated and he struggled with some of the more difficult- to- pronounce words.

'About three months ago,' he said, just about stopping his voice from cracking. 'Someone sent a message to me, calling me beautiful. I didn't recognise the number, and they left no name, so I asked who it was. They refused to tell me. I asked them to stop sending messages and, for a few days, they did. Then it got worse. There could be up to twenty messages a day. I asked whoever it was to stop, but they didn't. Even after I stopped responding, the texts kept coming.' He stopped for a few seconds, his eyes fluttering shut as he tried to maintain his composure. The Japanese man, whom the presenter had introduced as Kiku, reached over and squeezed his hand. The gesture seemed to give Arthur courage, and he cleared his throat and went on.

'The messages still haven't stopped, and now this person has been taking pictures of me – of us, when we're out together. I've never seen who it is. I just hear the click of the camera and see the flash and I know they're there, even if they don't show themselves. It's got so bad that I'm scared to go out. And now they know where we live, because I've been getting letters. This person knows my name. I don't know how long this can go on for. If any of you have even the ghost of an idea who it might be then please, please say something. I just can't live in this way anymore.' Matthew shut down his laptop the instant the video was finished. He felt sick to his stomach. More than anything, he wished he was back in London. He wished that he'd never gone looking at Gilbert's messages and set this whole thing into motion. He wished that he wasn't so cursed by this curiosity. Now he knew far more than he had ever wanted to.

…..

The rain, which had been a light drizzle when Francis had first left the house, was now coming down in sheets. It soaked him to the skin and left a dull ache in his bones but he barely noticed it as he walked alongside the narrow river. His secret was out. What Matthew chose to do next could very well destroy him. He didn't want to think about what sort of punishment he would get for his pursuit of Arthur, especially when his crime was viewed against the fact that he had hidden away for four years and written poetry about it. He could only pray that Matthew would be sympathetic to him. But he had done awful things, such awful things.

What made all this worse was the fact that he had come to like the quiet translator with his adorable Canadian accent. He had come to admire the great skill involved in speaking one language while thinking in another and truly appreciated the service he was doing him by doing the translation. And he was beautiful, so beautiful. Francis knew that he shouldn't be thinking that, that he should be loyal to his Arthur, but it was true. The glittering purple eyes, the glasses balanced on his thin nose, the dark golden hair with its sticking-out curl… Maybe, just maybe, he had the makings of a new muse. But that was impossible. Francis could have only one muse, and that was Arthur. At any rate, Matthew would never have him now that he had found the things in the drawer.

….

_Francis was now three months into his hopeless courting of Arthur. With every day that went by, he stepped up his efforts a little, knowing even as he did so that what he was doing was strange and wrong. Miraculously, neither Arthur nor Kiku never even imagined that he was behind it all. The reason was simple. The restaurant had become their escape, their refuge. Francis belonged to the brightly-lit safety of the world of people; the world where there were no disembodied camera flashes, no strange messages, no constant arguments with each other about how they couldn't possibly live like this anymore. Arthur and Kiku's relationship was at breaking point, Francis observed, both driven almost mad by the stalking. As soon as they did come apart, Francis would be there to take Kiku's place. It wasn't his main plan to break them up, but he certainly wouldn't complain if it happened. Most wonderful of all was the fact that the idea of Francis being behind all this never crossed Arthur's mind, even though he had given him his number. Contact details were signed away so casually and so often that it could have been almost anyone in the bustling town._

_Francis now saw the two of them almost every day – at least, he saw Arthur. More and more often, the Englishman would come in alone, whiling away an hour or two with coffee and another of his innumerable books. It was on these occasions that Francis took the opportunity to engage him in conversation and through these meetings that he worked his way up to the status of a trusted confidant. Sometimes, if the place was empty, he would even sit down beside him, something that never failed to give him a thrill. And Arthur would talk to him, his usual propriety whittled away by the stress of being under constant observation from a mysterious stalker. On this particular occasion, he was being even more honest than usual._

'_I'm so scared,' he confessed, resting his tired cheek against one hand while the other cradled his coffee cup. 'Everything's bad enough as it is, but I'm worried that it might start getting worse. What if he hurts me? What if he attacks me or Kiku?' In that moment, Francis so desperately wanted to hold his hand, to tell him that he would never hurt him because he loved him so much and he was showing him in the only way he could, and that he was too weak to resist his attraction. He wanted to say how it took unknowable strength of will to contain himself as he sat just a few inches away from his beloved Arthur, subject of his dreams, object of his desires and captor of his heart. Of course, he couldn't say a single one of these things. All he could do was nod reassuringly and tell Arthur that he didn't think the stalker would compromise his anonymity by going so far._

_A week or so later, Arthur and Kiku came in together once more. It was the beginning of March but the spring sunshine had yet to appear and most people were sheltering in their homes. The beleaguered couple were the only customers on that evening and while standing at the entrance waiting for others to come, Francis had an idea. Keeping his phone discreetly hidden inside his apron, he typed a quick text._

'_I love the way you do your hair,' it ran, nothing too intimate or unsettling. But he wanted to see Arthur's reaction. Still concealing what he was doing, he pressed 'send' and waited the few tense seconds for it to ping through to Arthur's phone. Arthur looked exasperated as he heard his message tone and reached over to where his jacket was draped over the back of the chair, withdrawing his phone from the pocket. He gave it an irritated glance and shoved it straight back to where it had come from, without saying a word. Kiku, however, was unwilling to let the matter drop so easily. Neither of them looked at Francis. He was safe._

'_What did it say?' the Japanese man asked, irritation creeping into his usually calm, measured voice. Arthur shook his head and looked off to one side._

'_Nothing. Just something about my hair.' He didn't want to talk about it, that much was obvious._

'_Let me see.' _

'_No.' A drop of red was beginning to diffuse across Arthur's face. Kiku was also losing his temper._

'_Arthur, show it to me! Don't you think I have a right to see?' Arthur crossed his arms, folding into himself._

'_No, I don't think you have any kind of right! Whoever this man is, he's stalking me, not you. I've told you what it says and it's not much different from the others. I'm tired of talking about this. It's ruining my life.' He put his head in his hands and sighed deeply. Kiku reached out to touch his arm, concern and kindness on his face. At the last second, though, he pulled back and his usually placid features formed a harsher expression._

'_Your life? It's ruining mine as well. If there's anyone this man wants to hurt, it's me, not you. You're so precious to him, so beautiful. Who am I but an obstacle, stopping him from getting what he wants?' He stood up and made as if to leave. Arthur reached for his hand but Kiku brushed him off. Both of them looked close to tears._

'_Kiku, please…' Arthur entreated. Kiku shook his head sadly._

'_I'm so sorry, Arthur. I just don't feel safe anymore. I can't carry on like this. I haven't slept in days and neither have you. We need to spend some time apart. I think everything might stop if we do.' He pulled his coat on and walked out, not trusting himself to look back. Arthur laid his head on his arms, not bothering to stifle his sobs. He raised a tentative hand, as though hoping Kiku would return to clasp it in his own, then, when all hope was lost, let it drop limply to the table._

'_This… is… all… my… bloody… fault,' Arthur said fiercely to himself, his speech punctuated by sniffs, gasps and other attempts to regain his usually impregnable self-control. He had apparently forgotten that he had an audience in the form of Francis. At length, he got up, brushed a few of the creases out of his shirt and left without a further word, leaving Francis alone to deal with his turbulent emotions._

….

The rain had by now turned to a violent hailstorm. Francis made no effort to protect himself or find shelter. He welcomed every stinging blow, every one part of his punishment for what he had done. He could remember every single thought that had run through his head when Kiku had left Arthur. Firstly, there was a moment of horror as he realised what anguish his actions had caused. Then there was worry that Arthur would turn to him, look straight at him and see the guilt marked on his face. When that didn't happen, a small kernel of triumph took root somewhere in the region of his heart. Arthur was single. As it happened, however, Francis's elaborate plans to court him came to nothing.

….

_Arthur didn't come in for his customary coffee for two full weeks after the break-up and Francis was beginning to fear the worst. He sent a couple of messages but go no reply, although he had come to expect that by now. One evening, he decided to walk past Arthur's house and see if everything was going well. To his relief, although all the blinds were drawn against prying eyes, a lamp was burning in an upper-floor window, which Francis surmised was the bedroom. He wanted to knock on the door, pay a visit and talk to his beloved – indeed, he almost got to the gate – but remembered at the last moment that he wasn't supposed to know where Arthur lived. Francis the stalker knew, but Francis the waiter didn't and he had come to realise that these were two different people. So he contented himself with looking up at the illuminated window for a little while, wondering what Arthur was doing, how he was feeling. He stood bathing in its faint glow until an arm, silhouetted against the curtain, reached up and flicked it off. He walked home in darkness._

_Two days after this, Francis was most shocked to see Arthur and Kiku arriving together once more. Not only shocked, but filled with the most poisonous, vitriolic jealousy, even worse than what he had experienced the first time he saw them together. Forcing himself to smile, he went over to take their order. Normally parsimonious, on this occasion, the couple ordered the most expensive things on the menu. Francis was intrigued._

'_What's the occasion?' he asked with a false smile. Arthur reached for Kiku's hand and Francis noticed with a sharp twist of envy how perfectly their fingers interlocked._

'_We're getting married,' Arthur said, blushing a little. 'We realised that the best way to get through… everything is to be together. But this is our last time here. We're moving away. This whole issue is just too much for us. We can't stay.' Francis was in shock, but some sense of what Arthur had said penetrated a far-distant corner of his brain. Arthur was back with Kiku. Arthur was marrying Kiku. Arthur and Kiku were leaving. He would never again see his angel, his beautiful one, his beloved. He never could see him again without arousing suspicion. He regained consciousness of his surroundings just in time._

'_Well, congratulations to you both. It's a shame you're leaving but I suppose it's for the best. I wish you every happiness in your married life.' He managed to retreat before his veneer of sincerity cracked, going over to another table to collect some empty plates. He loved Arthur. He wanted him to be happy, he truly did. But he wanted Arthur to be happy with him, no-one else, and that was what broke his heart. _

_He kept casting furtive, illicit little glances at the two of them. They were far more relaxed than they had been in months, all smiles and casual touches. At one point, Kiku lifted a hand in order to make some sort of gesture and Francis spotted the winking diamond of his engagement ring. So Arthur had been the one who asked. Francis would have asked Arthur, and he would have picked an emerald set into gold to match his eyes and hair. But that hadn't happened, and now Francis was unable to tear his eyes away from this physical representation of the love he would never have and the promises he would never make. The diamond caught the light and its pure beam pierced his heart. _

….

The first line of poetry had come to him in that moment, and it was the line that would prove to be his most famous – _I will remember you, and be glad that you cannot forget_. And he had remembered, he had remembered every day. And Arthur could never forget, not after all he'd gone through. Francis looked up, momentarily waking from his daydream, and saw that it was getting dark. He must have been out walking for hours. As he began to retrace his steps, he cast his mind back over those first few exciting days when the verses had come to him and demanded to be recorded almost as fast as he could write them down. He had resigned from his job and moved to his current house, inventing a story about an inheritance to make what he was doing seem totally innocuous. That had been the first step to his seclusion. He knew from the outset that his life would have to be one of total secrecy and his poetry would have to be published under another name. Everything he had amassed during his pursuit and after it would have to be locked away: the diary, the lists of words and descriptions, the list of dates when he had seen Arthur, the photos – nothing could be left to chance. At the time he had considered his total isolation a way to remain faithful to the one who had stolen his heart. Now, however, he was beginning to wonder if it might be time to get it back.

Abruptly, he remembered that he and Matthew had not parted on the best of terms. He had a dim recollection of threatening to sack the boy – no, man. A disconcertingly vivid image entered his mind of tears spilling out of violet eyes, of delicate hands scrunched up in terror, of a sweet little mouth twisted with worry as he waited to hear of his fate. Francis shook his head to clear his vision but the realisation was there – Matthew had found out his deepest and most shameful secret and yet Francis found that he felt relieved. At last, he no longer needed to fear discovery, for it had come. Now he at least needed to make sure that Matthew heard his side of the story.

'I need,' he muttered to himself, quickening his pace a little, 'to tell him the truth.'

…

Back at the house, Matthew had gone through the drawers again, systematically this time. Now, all over his bed and the floor, were the things Francis had hidden. He looked about himself slowly, surrounded on all sides by the detritus of an infatuation.

'He needs,' he whispered to himself, looking down at his watch and seeing that it had been almost six hours, 'to tell me the truth.'


	7. Chapter 7

Matthew tensed up as the front door clicked open. His heart began to beat faster, accelerating madly as he heard Francis begin to climb the stairs. He was as good as ruined, he knew that. He just wished that he could have the last couple of weeks erased and live them anew, properly this time. He wondered what Alfred would say if he suddenly appeared on his doorstep in yet another crisis. He could just imagine the look of sympathy barely coating the tiredness and irritation his brother would surely feel. Summoning up the last remnants of his earlier assertiveness, he resolved to do what had to be done and be done with it. There was no other way. Despite all this, he was reduced to a quivering wreck when Francis walked in.

'Mathieu,' he said, without preamble. 'I need to speak to you. Firstly, I must apologise. You are owed an apology, that is indisputable. Secondly, though, I must thank you. You have released me from my exile. I no longer need to fear discovery because I have been discovered.' Matthew was dumbfounded. He had expected to be turned out with immediate effect. What, he wondered, had caused this sudden contrition in Francis?

'I'm sorry too. I should never have gone looking in your drawers. I should have done as you asked.' he replied meekly. Francis just shook his head.

'No, Mathieu, it is my own fault. Who, after all, does not dream of exploring a house full of secrets?' He moved from his position in the doorway and cautiously sat down on the bed beside Matthew, brushing away a few of the photos without looking at them in order to make room for himself. 'I must tell you something of myself. It is a sad story, and one soon told. I imagine you know, or have guessed, the greater part of it already.' He shifted slightly, leaning forward a little. He was turned away from Matthew, staring off into his past as he spoke.

'I once loved a man,' he began sadly. 'Who did not return my love.' He sighed and rested his chin on his hand for a moment before continuing. 'What I realise now, and what I should have realised then, was that the best and noblest thing to do would have been to leave him alone. Instead, I tried to make him love me. I tried to force him to love me. Do not mistake me, I never laid hands on him, never. I never even so much as explicitly declared my intentions. But I almost ruined his life and in doing so totally ruined my own.' He stopped, his leaden voice giving way to bleak silence. For the first time, Matthew saw him with all the layers of careful artifice stripped away. He saw a man crushed under the weight of his guilt and shame and one who had suffered terribly for his actions. No law could punish him more severely than he had punished himself. He wanted to say something sympathetic but had no idea what. He was saved from this dilemma by Francis, who then began to speak again, apparently glad to have a confessor at last.

'He loved someone else, although you know that. My… pursuit of him almost drove them apart – in fact it did, for a while. But in the end, their connection only became stronger, I suppose the mark of true love. They left the town after it got too much. They were engaged. I imagine that they were married a long time ago by now. I had never much liked the place and after he moved away I had no reason to stay. I found this house and bought it – it was far cheaper than you might think – and I began to write. For three full months I only went out to buy food. The poetry just poured into me from some higher plane. Just the faintest flicker of a memory of him would be enough to sustain a whole poem. I called him 'The Tenth Muse', and that was what he was to me. I loved him purely, like a painting or statue. I never touched him, and perhaps that would have broken the spell. He was a muse to me, something at once lesser and greater than a lover.' Matthew was entranced. Francis made something rather disquieting sound beautiful, almost romantic.

'But I don't understand. If you loved him so much, why didn't you just leave him alone? Surely you could have found someone else – someone who both loved and inspired you?' Francis shook his head.

'Ah, Mathieu, if only it were that easy. But love is a strange thing, often choosing the most unattainable people to mark out for each other.' Matthew realised the truth of his words. He remembered how completely he had fallen for Gilbert when they first met and how long it had taken him to figure out that they weren't meant for each other. He wondered briefly if he was meant for anyone.

'I understand,' he murmured, trying to think of the last meaningful moment he and Gilbert had shared. Perhaps in spring a few months before, when he'd woken to see him sitting by the window listening to the birds. What was it he'd said? _This morning I got up to hear these birdies but every other morning I wake to hear you, my own Birdie. _Francis seemed to be torturing himself even more, his speech going on and becoming even darker and even more depressive.

'Love, when not returned,' he said, 'continues to grow in isolation. Sometimes it remains as pure longing. Sometimes it turns to misery and despair. Sometimes, and most damagingly, it becomes warped and destructive. It changes from love to total obsession. It happened to me and it has been the undoing of me.'

For a long time, they sat in a silence that gradually warmed from awkward to comfortable as each was lost in his thoughts. Eventually, Matthew found himself with something to say. He had a revelation of his own to make.

'My last boyfriend… was unfaithful to me. To the other man as well, because he knew nothing about it. Nothing has ever hurt me more. The man you loved… he could never have loved you, and that's a good thing. If he had gone with you as well as his own boyfriend, then it would have meant that he didn't really love either of you. I know how terrible it is when something like that happens. You feel like you can't trust anyone anymore.' He fell silent once more, his customary shyness taking over once more. Francis then did the last thing Matthew would have expected. He laughed; a bitter, acrid sound.

'Look at us, Mathieu! We are so damaged, both of us. Love has caused us nothing but anguish and left us both the worse off for having experienced it. How could either of us ever love again? How could we ever let ourselves be loved?' He lowered his voice, as though afraid someone would somehow overhear. 'Mathieu, the truth is I have not written anything of any worth in months. I imagine my dear muse's face and the remembrance of him leaves me dead. I feel nothing for a man who once drove me almost to madness. I can no longer say I love him and yet I cannot imagine myself with anyone else.' All Matthew could do was nod: nod and angrily crush the tiny flicker of hope that had arisen in his heart at the news that Francis no longer loved Arthur. Well, at least the man was faithful – too much so, but the fact remained. They lapsed into silence again, broken by Matthew suddenly yawning. He and Francis suddenly and simultaneously realised how late it was. The day had been long and emotional and taken its toll on both of them. Francis rose slowly.

'I will leave you for the night now, Mathieu. And thank you for listening to me. I had not missed friendly company until now. Sometimes an interested ear is all one needs to feel human again, to feel valid. Now, we must put all these things away. In the morning, we can get rid of them. They are no longer needed.'

…..

Francis was profoundly relieved to have made his confession to Matthew and he went about the task of clearing everything away with a wonderfully buoyant feeling of freedom. The objects felt strange in his hand. He could scarcely believe that he was the same man who had hidden behind to trees to take pictures of Arthur; the same man who had filled an entire diary with incoherent stream-of-consciousness notes, narrating his decline into obsession; the same man who had once spent hours going through reams of paper covered in his state of near-trance and separating the wheat from the chaff. He finished gathering a pile of notepaper – more word lists – and looked up. Matthew had his back to him, his brassy hair parted at the nape of his neck to reveal its whiteness tinted pink by the French summer. He was humming to himself, probably unconsciously, as he slid all the pictures carefully back into the envelope. From behind, his girlishness was not so pronounced, not that anything like that would diminish his loveliness. He hummed a few more notes and then began to sing the words. They were in English, and washed over Francis. Still, he had a sweet voice – a light tenor, Francis would have guessed, although he knew little about music. His voice climbed a few steps and lingered on a high note. The song ended and the spell was broken. Francis returned to his task, his face suddenly hot and fingers uncoordinated.

…..

Matthew woke slowly the next morning. The night seemed almost to have been unreal and indeed the clean-up had left no trace of his exploits. He ran through Francis's words in his mind, particularly troubled by the idea that he might not write anything else. It was never good to have just one purpose in life, but now that he no longer felt anything for Arthur, it seemed that Francis had a dismal future ahead, robbed of all meaning. He lay for a few more minutes, consumed by his thoughts, then sat up slowly. The sun was already high and he abruptly remembered what Francis had said about them disposing of all Arthur-related objects that morning. They would need to get to work soon in order to have any sort of chance of getting rid of everything in one day.

He dressed in the first things he pulled out of the wardrobe and descended to the kitchen, the tiles uncomfortably cold against his bare feet. He had expected to see Francis sitting in his customary place at the table – each of them had unconsciously come to sit in the same seat every time – so it was with surprise that Matthew noticed the poet's absence. He felt strangely lonely as he sat with his jammy croissant and absently traced patterns with his finger on the scrubbed wooden surface. It was such a beautiful house. For the first time, he wondered where he would live when he returned to England. He couldn't afford to rent in London all on his own and he couldn't stay with Alfred. He toyed with the idea of returning to his childhood home of Canada or perhaps moving to France permanently. He was enjoying his time away but he knew that soon enough he would have to face the issues confronting him. His life was on hold while he was here in this strange yet charming place. For now, he could eat croissants and luxuriate in the sun that radiated through the room.

Several minutes passed and still no sign of Francis. Matthew began to worry about him and decided to go and investigate. He wasn't entirely sure which of the closed doors he would be behind, so he knocked on each one until, on the third attempt, he got a response.

'Mathieu? What is it?' Matthew was suddenly nervous.

'I just wanted to make sure you were ok. You're usually up so much earlier than me.' There was a pause, then Francis replied.

'Ah yes, I remember now. We were going to be clearing everything out today.' He opened the door and Matthew peered past him, glimpsing a room that was clearly a study, with a heavy antique desk and crowded bookshelves.

'Do you want to start now? I can wait. I didn't mean to interrupt you.' Francis shrugged.

'Yes, we can start now. I was not doing anything of any importance. I am merely a frustrated poet chasing after his elusive muse. Come, the sooner I am rid of these things the better.'

They worked quickly and unsentimentally. Francis did not need to be persuaded to part with anything – indeed, he seemed to regard the items with disgust and put them into the bag without a second glance. They didn't speak, and Matthew sensed that something was not quite right, although he wasn't sure how to ask about it. After a couple of hours going through all the locked drawers in the house, Francis suggested that they break for lunch, an idea gratefully seconded by Matthew. They took their food outside, it being so warm, and sat on the expansive lawn. The heat was comforting, like a favourite blanket and a sunbathing Matthew, full and contented, found himself dropping off, lulled by the perfect quiet of the countryside.

….

Francis felt a stab of guilt as he saw that Matthew had fallen asleep. He must have been far more tired than he'd been letting on last night and Francis had kept him awake for so long as he poured out the contents of his soul. Still, it was nice to see him peaceful, a little smile on his face. His thoughts returned to what had kept him up all night and the reason he'd been in his study that morning. He had a plan. He was going to come clean about what he had done – well, almost at any rate. He would mention no names. He would simply apologise to Arthur and then the man, wherever he was now, could do as he saw fit. Francis could only pray that he would be understanding and not get the law involved, although perhaps he deserved that sort of punishment. He jerked out of his daydream as Matthew shifted in his sleep, causing his glasses to slip. Francis reached out and took them off, folding them neatly beside him. He hoped as he did so that this act of kindness hadn't crossed some sort of boundary. Matthew looked good without glasses. Francis decided that he would tell him his plan as soon as he woke from whatever dream he was enjoying.

….

Matthew blinked languidly a few times, a little disappointed that his pleasant dream had been brought to such an abrupt end. Already it was fleeting from his mind and he had forgotten what it was about. He sat up, still not quite awake, and raised a sleepy hand to his face. His glasses were gone and without them the world was a collection of blurs, an imitation Impressionist painting. Even so, he could still make out which of the blurs was Francis.

'What happened to my glasses?' he asked, his voice still slow and thick from his nap.

'Oh, Mathieu, I am so sorry. I did not realise that you could see so little without them. They almost fell off when you were asleep so I took them off you.' He picked them up and handed them to Matthew.

'Thank you. And I'm sorry for falling asleep. It's this heat, you know? We don't get anything like this back in London and when we do it's followed by rain.' Francis laughed a little, then grew serious again.

'Mathieu,' he said gravely, 'I have been thinking about my current lifestyle and I have made a decision. Quite an important one.' He looked off into the distance. Matthew thought he looked like a condemned prisoner.

'What have you decided?' he prompted gently.

'I have decided to make myself known in public. I am tired, Mathieu. I am so tired of living this way. I have not travelled further than the nearest town in four years. I have not been photographed. I have hardly spoken to a living soul in any great depth. I have not even put my real name on my poetry, my greatest achievement. This madness, this paranoia – it must end. I will tell people my name and something of my story. I will not give names other than my own, or dates, or details of where all these events took place. I will say only that I made a mistake and that I loved someone I should not have in a way that I should not have. There will be some media interest, I know that, but soon it will die down when the next salacious story breaks. The main reason for this is so that my once-beloved no longer need wonder who it was that so upset him. In this way, he will be able to do what he wants. If he wants me to be locked away for what I did, let him do it. If he is content to leave me alone, that will be a blessing I do not deserve. But I must speak. I owe him that.'

Matthew was stunned. The shock destroyed his mental translator and for a few moments he scrabbled helplessly for words, trying to string a sentence together.

'But… Are you sure? What if he really does want to get you locked up? You could end up in a mental institute.' Francis ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply.

'No, Mathieu, I am not sure. I am a coward. I know I deserve this punishment and yet I fear it. I have done indefensible things and yet here I am trying to defend myself. God help me.' he finished lamely, seeming totally defeated. Matthew felt a sudden surge of compassion.

'Don't worry. We can deal with whatever happens together.' The words were out before he could moderate them. He bit his lip. Francis gave him a quizzical look but then recovered himself.

'Thank you, Mathieu. I could never have come to this decision alone but come to it I have. I am going to set this to rights. For good or ill, I will do what I know to be right.'


	8. Chapter 8

Francis hadn't done this in a while. Everything was prepared and in its customary place: his notebook – it was actually a sketchbook but he liked the feel of the thick paper – his ornate fountain pen, a ruler and pencil to mark faint lines on the page… It was all there, just waiting to be used. And it would be used. For the first time in over a year, Francis was going to write. He had a new inspiration. He picked up the pen with great care, feeling that he should accord this means of communication proper respect, then poised it carefully above the page, its fertile tip glistening with fat drops of ink. He brought it down almost theatrically, like an orchestral conductor, and began to write.

_He is beautiful. His hair is a dark, burnished gold, falling over his face in a way that is endearingly untidy. His eyes… _Eyes, eyes… What could he say about those? He dropped the pen in frustration, not caring that it spattered the paper as it fell. When his flame of inspiration had been rekindled, it had felt like a blessing. Now, however, he was less certain of whether anyone would ever take an interest in his poetry again. In three days, he would appear on TV and reveal everything: his name, his face and his story. Along with him would come Matthew, functioning in a professional capacity by representing the international readership but also, though he was unaware of the fact, offering Francis support through his presence. He was deeply worried about what the future would bring after that date. Every night since the previous week, when he had made his momentous decision, he had lain awake for hours wondering how Arthur would react. His appearance was going to be on one of those awful culture programmes where people could message in every one of their snap judgements and blanket condemnations. He could only hope that the audience would be understanding of what had made him act in such a way.

Francis looked down at his barely-begun character sketch once again. He was falling back into his old cycle of being obsessed with someone totally unattainable. Arthur had had someone else and Matthew, after his ordeal with Gilbert, had no interest in anyone. He truly wanted to stop himself from writing about Matthew but he couldn't. He felt himself, slowly and inevitably, falling in love again. He picked up his pen and tried to summon up the perfect shade of purple to describe the man's eyes. Eventually, his memory failing him, he called out.

'Mathieu!'

….

At the sound of his name, Matthew looked up from his untidy desk, covered with half-done bits of translation and heavily annotated copies of the poems. He stood up, wondering what Francis could possibly be wanting now. The man had been a nervous wreck since his decision to face the world. Matthew couldn't blame him either. He was still a little confused about what he felt for Francis. He didn't think he was in love, not yet – and, as per his promise, nor would he ever be. No, what he felt was friendship, deepening to affection. He cared about Francis. He had seen through his layers of calculated mystery, he had seen beyond his sins to a man who was ultimately fragile and who found himself abhorrent. Matthew wanted to help him – yes, help him. Help him and absolutely nothing more. No matter how alluring he was.

'I'm just coming up!' he yelled in response, crossing the landing to the study that had, until so recently, been just another mystery. He still hadn't gone inside yet, although that was about to change. He knocked on the door.

'Come in!' Matthew felt his heart jump a little, excited at the prospect of going inside for the first time. He pushed the door open and stepped in, looking around him at the elegantly sculpted desk, the heaving bookshelves, the eighteenth-century paintings on the walls… It was all fascinating. Francis glanced up at him and then, despite having just called him, seemed suddenly preoccupied with scribbling something down on his notepad. Matthew was content to watch him for a moment, watch the way his hair gleamed in the light from the window and the way his whole body curved gracefully over his work. He finished writing whatever it was and straightened up, shifting in his chair to face Matthew.

'Ah, Mathieu, thank you for coming. Please take a seat – that is, if you are not too busy with your work.' In truth, he had a lot to do, but he found himself sitting in the proffered chair.

'What was it you wanted to talk about?' he asked. He had become so much more comfortable in Francis's presence over the last few weeks. All his shyness had melted away and he felt wonderfully and refreshingly able to be himself. Francis sighed, suddenly looking far older than he was.

'I am afraid. No, I am terrified. I cannot continue with my life until this is resolved and yet there is nothing I want more than to walk away from all this and go back to the way I was.' Matthew shook his head vehemently.

'No you don't. What you're doing is the best possible thing in these circumstances. You'll feel so liberated once all this is over, I promise you.' He felt a strange and sudden urge to put his arms around him. Never before had he encountered someone who was suffering so profoundly. Francis leaned down and unlocked one of his desk drawers, withdrawing something.

'Mathieu,' he said heavily, as though invoking some great and fearsome deity, 'I wish for you to see this before I dispose of it forever. It is what first set me on this path.' Matthew looked at the red scarf, the way its liquid folds pooled over the poet's hands. It was startlingly vivid, like a streak of blood diffusing in milk.

'Was it his?' Francis nodded sadly.

'It was. The first time he came to the restaurant, he left it behind. I took it. I have never known why. He came back to look for it and I claimed not to have seen it. He cried and was ashamed. He said it was because it was a present from his boyfriend.' Suddenly, everything clicked in Matthew's mind.

'Two words, and each one a dagger.' he murmured. Francis smiled ruefully.

'How well you understand me, Mathieu. Yes, it was those words that should have told me to stop. They could have been the saving of me and instead they were my damnation.' He stood up. 'Come outside with me.' he said softly, beckoning for Matthew to follow as he walked to the door. The scarf was still clutched in his hand, a scarlet banner.

'What are you going to do with it?' Francis made no answer as he descended the stairs, Matthew trailing along behind him. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Francis pulled the door open and went out into the garden, walking until they got to the pond.

'Now, Mathieu,' he began, 'I am sure you have realised by now what we are going to do.' Matthew shook his head, eyes wide and questioning. Francis shrugged nonchalantly. 'Or perhaps not. Either way, I have decided that I will imbue this event with a little ceremony. In the days of sailing ships, the bodies of dead sailors would be thrown over the side. They called it 'being committed to the deep'. I will do the same for this… thing.' He paused, then unfolded the garment until it was stretched out to its full length. He held it so that the end was just an inch or two above the surface of the water, then spoke again. 'Arthur,' he said, 'I was wrong. I was selfish. I no longer wish to be that way and so, sad though happy to be free, I commit you – or rather your scarf – to the deep.' He released the scarf and it floated for a moment until it became waterlogged and then sank under its own weight, shrinking and darkening as it disappeared down into the depths. He stepped back from the water's edge and turned to face a bewildered Matthew. 'Now, Mathieu,' he said, real happiness in his voice. 'Now I am ready to face the world.'

…..

Live. Studio. Audience. That, and a dense cluster of cameras just desperate to begin filming. Matthew felt his fretful heart jumping as he watched the countdown until they went on air and had to forcefully restrain himself from running all the way back home. Francis needed him to be there.

Fifteen seconds…

He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

Twelve seconds…

He pushed his glasses up from where they had slipped down the bridge of his nose.

Ten seconds…

The presenter adjusted her position so that she was thrust forward, towards the cameras.

Five seconds…

Francis knotted his hands together in an attitude almost resembling prayer.

Three seconds…

Matthew shifted, sitting up a little straighter.

Two seconds…

He cleared his throat discreetly, preparing to speak.

One second…

Silence fell, immediately and totally.

Action.

'Hello, and welcome to the show! Elizaveta here, and today we've got a real corker for you; a world exclusive! I doubt any of you will recognise the man here with me today but in just a moment you will!' Francis stiffened perceptibly. At this prompting, he was expected to recite one of his poems, to be met with shocked stares and little gasps of recognition. He gave Matthew a quick, deep look that could have meant anything, then began to speak.

'Green eyes, a forest wherein lies…' The rest of the line was swallowed up in the commotion and in the general babble Matthew could make out a few cries of 'It's him!' Even Elizaveta, who had of course known in advance, looked amazed. As soon as the poem was over, however, she recovered herself and launched into the next scripted question.

'So, now that we've all seen you… Why have we had to wait so long?' It was calculated to be sympathetic but failed to have the desired effect. Francis turned his tortured face to the camera.

'There is a reason why I hid away. The story is long but I will try to tell it in as few words as possible.' The audience had begun to whisper, a sound like the rustle of tracing paper. Matthew had to stop himself from reaching for the man's hand.

'Firstly, my name is not Pierre Dubois. It is Francis Bonnefoy, although I have not used it in years. All my work – every word of it – was inspired by one man, and that is what has caused me such sorrow. I loved him, but he did not return my feelings. He was already happy with someone else and when I realised that I could not have him, I decided that I could still love him from afar. What I did was wrong, I understand that now. I sent him messages, declarations of love. I took pictures of him because I was insanely jealous of the man he loved, the one who was able to look at him adoringly every single day. I wanted to do the same. He never found out that it was me behind it all and that is what pains me the most because he saw me as a friend, someone trustworthy. I almost broke the bond between him and his true love but the last I heard they were engaged. I hope they stayed together. I wrote all my poetry about him but now he is my muse no longer. I have set him free. I will not say his name but if he is watching, all I can do is beg his forgiveness. Believe me, I have suffered for my sins every waking moment since I first began to pursue him and the guilt has crept into my dreams as well. I am sorry.'

The noise, which had been steadily increasing all through the speech, rose and spilled over into a violent crescendo. There were insults and shouts of disgust intermingled with more emollient sounds of pity and sympathy. Francis was unmoved, taking it all as his due, while Matthew tried not to well up. His nervousness and shyness were making him feel sick and he breathed deeply. All going well, he wouldn't have to speak, but the website had advertised the fact that people could email questions to him about a non-native French speaker's perception of the work. He could only hope that, like always, no-one would take an interest in him. Within a minute or two, people's responses began to fly into the email inbox faster than Elizaveta could read them out, certainly faster than she could censor them.

_Disgusting, evil…_ 'No, I don't think this one is of much interest!' she said with false brightness.

_Stalker, you make me want to… _'I do think that we specified sensible responses!' A few minutes of this later, she suddenly went quiet, scanning the text of a long email. 'This one looks a bit more promising,' she commented, relieved that some semblance of order could now be restored to the programme. She began to read.

_I remember you, Francis. I've read all your poetry and I must say, I made the connection a while ago. I've never hated you, don't you worry. Well, I did for a while but now I understand how love can make people do strange things. In a strange way, I'm flattered to have been your muse, although I'm glad that I'm not any more. As for the messages, you could have complimented me in person. Never mind. And yes, Kiku and I did stay together. We got married three years ago. I hope you can forgive yourself, because I've forgiven you. You made a mistake and I don't think there's a single one of us who's never done that._

_Your Arthur._

Francis looked as if he had seen a ghost – he was even shivering.

'My God,' he said softly, 'it's him.' The crowd had fallen silent. The cameras were zooming in for a dramatic close-up of his reaction.

'What do you have to say to that?' Elizaveta asked Francis, giving voice to what everyone was thinking. Matthew didn't know what to think. It had happened so fast. For once, the eloquent poet was lost for words.

'I am… It is… I am relieved to have heard from him. I feel as if I do not deserve this forgiveness but if he is giving it to me then it is my duty to accept it. He understands that I am not a monster and for that I am grateful. For a long time I considered myself evil. It is thanks to this man here,' he gestured to Matthew, 'that I decided to make my confession.' Suddenly, Matthew felt all eyes on him. He blushed deeply as he realised that he was expected to say something. His throat dried up and he felt dewdrops of sweat rising along his hairline.

'I am the translator of his work into English. For the last few weeks, I have been staying at his house and working on the first edition. During that time, I have come to know him quite well and it was for that reason that he confided in me. On hearing his story, I told him that the best way for him to assuage his guilt would be to tell the truth. As you can see, he took my advice.' This was met with some laughter and a few whistles, prompting Matthew to belatedly realise just how much his words could be twisted. He felt an irrational surge of anger towards Francis for humiliating him in this way, no matter how unintentional it had been. For the moment, all he could do was somehow survive the rest of the interview.

…..

On the drive home, Francis was acting like a prisoner suddenly given a reprieve. He sang along to all the dreadful French pop songs on the radio and waved at little old ladies passing by. Matthew sat in a sulk, radiating anger to the oblivious poet.

'Mathieu, why are you being so quiet?' he finally enquired. Matthew clenched his fists.

'You made me look like a complete _idiot_,' he hissed, 'those people thought I was your _lover._' Francis flared up.

'I said nothing! It was through your own words that you painted any sort of picture to that effect. Are you always this inclined to blame others for your own shortcomings?' Tempers were running high. Having gone through the purgatory of the interview together, they were no longer sure what to do with each other and whether boundaries had been redrawn between them at all.

'At least I speak to them instead of sending anonymous messages!' Francis swerved to avoid an oncoming car.

'_Sacre Dieu! _That is enough! Perhaps I should have sent you away when you first invaded my privacy. Most likely I would have come to this decision in my own time.' Matthew laced his fingers together to prevent himself from committing some act of violence.

'You never would. Never. You would have hidden in that house until you died.' That was a low blow but it hit home. They remained in cold, angry silence for the rest of the journey.

….

Francis aimlessly doodled lines and curls with his pen as he watched the sunset bathe his study in warm orange light. His previous anger had subsided and been replaced by a dull sadness. He hadn't meant to argue with Matthew, he really hadn't. Perhaps the poem he was working on would make everything alright again between them. He wondered what Matthew was doing. Maybe he was on the phone to that brother of his, complaining. Maybe he was packing his bags to leave.

He looked down at the half-completed poem with almost paternal pride. It was the first thing his once-prodigious imagination had produced in far too long, a fact largely thanks to the fact that all his worry had been lifted. The day had certainly gone better than expected. He would have been glad not going to prison and instead he had received a genuine, personal message of forgiveness from the man himself. He had been freed from his prison of his own making and now he was free to live his life. And to love again. He wondered idly what Matthew's favourite sort of flower was. He hoped it wasn't too late to apologise for their argument. If he worked all the next day, his poem should be ready by the following evening. He read over what he had written and ran an inky hand through his hair. Now, about that fifth line…

…

Back in his little room, Matthew was pacing up and down, occasionally pausing for a few moments of thought before setting off again. He loved Francis. He hated him. He wanted to love him. He couldn't love him. Gilbert's betrayal had left deep wounds that still smarted. Another person treating him like that would make them infected. He thought bitterly that it was his own quietness and timidity that made people lose interest in him. But Francis was different. The man seemed to have real respect for him. He admired his skill at something, even though his own gift for writing was far better. So really there was no reason to be so reticent. Then again, when he had first met Gilbert and been so enraptured, there had been no reason to be reticent either. They had had such fun dating, visiting each other's flats and then, later, furnishing and decorating their own flat. Then he looked back on every Valentine's day where he had silently wished 'I hope that he'll ask me this year.' He never did. Gilbert probably wouldn't have married him if they'd spent twenty years together. He just wasn't that sort.

Tired from his constant, repetitive movement, he lay down fully dressed on his bed, drawing his knees up to his chin.

'Maple leaf,' he muttered to himself, 'I think I'm in love.'


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning, Matthew woke early. The sun had barely risen and the constant background noise of traffic on the road below had been reduced to an occasional swishing as a solitary car went by. He sat up, the crackling of blankets deafening in the silence. Despite the hour, he was completely awake and he knew that he would have no chance of getting back to sleep even if he tried. The room felt stuffy and claustrophobic and his thoughts moved sluggishly in the dense air. He needed to get outside, the better to put his mind in order. Trying not to make any sound, he got up and dressed in the first things he could find, intending to go down to the village again.

He slipped outside into the startlingly cool air of the morning, shutting the door behind him with a muted click. The dormant house observed him dispassionately as he began to descend the hill, the soles of his Converse slapping flatly against the road with every step. He casually stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, surprised when one unexpectedly made contact with a heavy lump. It was his phone. Drawing it out, he saw that he had no fewer than twelve missed calls from Alfred. Of course. He must have been watching on TV. Matthew hadn't told him about what he and Francis had done and now he felt horribly guilty at the thought of how Alfred would feel. Their whole relationship was founded on the understanding that they would tell each other everything. He decided that, although it was early, he would have to make the call now. He sighed. His whole life seemed to be a succession of apologies, both given and received. Alfred launched into his angry speech as soon as he picked up.

'Hello, Matt. Thanks for telling me about going on TV. It's great to know that I can always depend on my brother to keep me updated about what's going on in his life.' he said bitterly.

'Al, I'm really sorry. I just wasn't sure about how to tell you. I wasn't sure if you'd understand. You do tend to judge people without knowing them, like you've done with Francis.'

'Oh, right. Sorry. So he stalked a guy, wrote three books of poetry about him, hid away for four years and then dramatically revealed all on TV, but he's a nice guy really. A nice, normal guy.' The hurt was obvious in Alfred's voice and Matthew was brought close to tears by his shame. Alfred continued in the same vein. 'So I'm just at work yesterday – in a _restaurant _– when I get a text from Mathias saying he's just seen you and that French guy on YouTube. So I just tell him that if he's trying to fool me then he's not gonna succeed, because there's no way my little bro would do something like that without telling me about it. But he keeps going on about it, so when I get home I decide to check it out. And sure enough, there you are. With him. And from what you say, it sounds like you're more than friends. But yeah. Thanks again for letting me in on it.' For several seconds, there was silence as each one of them breathed shallowly, the mechanical ear of the phone listening and passing on the message to the other. Matthew felt his tears continuing to rise, then, when he could bear the stinging in his eyes no more, they overflowed.

'I'm sorry, Al. I was wrong not to tell you, I really was. But we _are _just friends, I promise. Except…' He cut himself off. He had said too much.

'Except what?' Alfred demanded, the hostility in his voice undimmed.

'Nothing,' Matthew replied weakly. 'Nothing at all.' Then he hung up and continued his walk to the village.

Once there, he found the bench by the pond where he had sat before under such different circumstances. According to his phone, it was not even seven o'clock yet. The single shopping street was desolate, all the windows shuttered, and all the houses were draped with heavy hangings of sleep. He would not be disturbed for a while. He scrunched up his face, trying to slow the march of tears down his cheeks. He could just imagine Alfred swaddled in his hamburger-print bedspread, scowling down at his phone, trying to be tough but in reality stung by his brother's betrayal. And then there was Francis. Francis, Francis, Francis. His poetry, of course; his charmingly antiquated speech; his lively features, so quick to turn from one expression to another. Matthew's feelings were hopelessly tangled. He knew that falling for someone else so soon after leaving Gilbert was probably a bad idea, but he just couldn't help it. His attraction to Francis was increasing with every passing day, giving him limited time to decide on the best course of action. He knew Alfred would disapprove of him being with Francis but he realised that he would have to stop taking his cues from his brother all the time. There was a difference between being protected and being smothered. He was in love, no two ways about it. He was in love, and it was far too late to get out of it now.

…

Francis too had been up with the birds, and he had heard Matthew going out, no matter how quiet he had tried to be. For the first time in a while, he felt excited. He still couldn't quite believe that Arthur hadn't wanted his head on a pike but wasn't going to complain about it. He really had punished himself enough, he decided as he flitted around the house, having an adrenaline rush in the unfortunately cramped space. He felt gloriously, gleefully impulsive. He wanted to do something crazy. He hadn't been to Paris in a while, which pained him, since it was his favourite place. Now, if he so desired, he could jump in his car and go straight there, maybe even bring Matthew with him. Ah, yes. Matthew. He prayed that their little argument the previous night would prove to be of no consequence.

The poem was not yet complete, but he was beginning to see its form, like the preliminary sketches for a painted masterpiece. He hoped that he could find the words to do his new muse justice and decided that dancing through all the rooms like and overgrown child was not going to help him in this task. Filled with the thrill of writing, he hurried to his study and sat at his desk, pen brimming with ink and mind brimming with ideas. His face was set in a wonderful smile that he knew would be impossible to erase if he tried. He had a new muse, and what more than that could any poet want? He had a new love, and what more than that could anyone want?

…

Matthew stayed out for several hours, far longer than he had anticipated. When the small, sleepy coffee shop opened at around eight, he found himself going in and ordering breakfast. Seated at one of those delicate, wrought-iron garden tables by the window, he watched as the stillness of the morning was ruptured, pinprick by pinprick, as people began to go about their business. He felt a strange mix of contentment and excitement as he sipped his warm coffee and nibbled on a heavily sugared cinnamon whirl. Abruptly, the memory of the previous night came back to him and he dropped the pastry. It fell onto the plate with a dusty thump, causing the few other customers to turn and look at him. He blushed and averted his eyes so that he was staring out of the window. He blamed himself for the argument. Looking back, his turbulent emotions restored to calm, he saw that he had been unfair in blaming Francis for his own poor choice of words. Then, when they had fought, the things he had said had been calculated to hurt. He sighed deeply and aimlessly tore a pattern along the edges of his napkin. He needed a little more time to himself, just to think, then, he decided, he would apologise once he got home. Wait… When had he started calling Francis's house home?

At any rate, the day turned out to be pleasantly sunny and, lured by the breathy rushing of the river that flowed through the village, he found himself following its course for about four miles. He felt peaceful and curiously weightless as he navigated the erratic terrain of the riverbank, making intermittent stops to cool his tired feet in the brutally cold water. He called Alfred again and got no answer, so he left a message telling him that he loved Francis and that there was nothing that he could do to change that. Then, when he was too tired to walk any further, when the sun was turning from yellow to gold to sepia, when the summer air was sharpening and taking on a chill, he turned and went back to Francis's house with his lengthening shadow trailing behind him.

…

At the sound of a timid knock at the door, Francis dropped his book and rushed downstairs to answer it. His finished ode to Matthew had been carefully rolled up and tied with a silver ribbon, a sprig of lavender inserted in the gap between the paper and the binding; he had always been a great lover of romance and romantic gestures. Now, he picked it up from his desk and hid it behind his back, wanting to surprise its inspiration when he came in. On opening the door, he saw that Matthew was as beautiful as ever: a little more burnt than before from his day out, his hoodie tied casually around his slim hips and his hair falling over his eyes as it always did. They paused there, one just over the threshold, the other on it, neither quite sure of how to proceed. They ended up speaking at the same time, their voices mingling in discord as they tried to make themselves heard.

'Mathieu, I…'

'Francis, I'm really…'

'I was…'

'It wasn't…' They came to an uncertain halt, the hasty, babbled, incoherent apologies enough for them, neither wanting to drag the ordeal out any further. Seeing his chance, Francis produced the little scroll.

'Mathieu,' he started to say, more hesitantly than usual, 'I wish to… tell you something. I have come to know you these last few weeks and I have come to like you in that time.' He paused to judge whether or not it was safe to continue. Taking Matthew's lack of interruption as agreement, he pressed on. 'A few days ago, I felt something I had not experienced in a while. I felt the desire, and the inspiration, to write. There was a reason for this, Mathieu, and that reason was you.'

….

For Matthew, the world stopped in that moment. He stuttered, his linguistic talent again having deserted him as it always did in times of need.

'I-I… R-Really? B-But why me?' Francis looked amused.

'Mathieu, I understand that you are shy, but this false modesty does not become you. You could inspire a hundred poets with your beauty, your sweetness, the way you sing when you think no-one is listening.' This last made him blush. His voice really wasn't all that good - tuneful but weak.

'Are you trying to tell me you love me?' he asked, emboldened and intoxicated by the praise that had gone to his head. Francis merely handed over the scroll and its lavender sprig.

'Read this and see for yourself.'

….

'I feel like a tourist.' Francis whined as they stood in the motionless queue for the Eiffel Tower. Matthew shook his head with a smile. In the three weeks since he had first read the poem by the light of the evening sun, he and Francis had formed an almost-perfect relationship.

'Oh, Francis. Such a proud Frenchman. It was you who wanted to go to Paris, remember?' Francis sighed.

'I know, but I had visions of something greater. Of boating along the Seine, of strolling hand-in-hand through the Tuileries gardens, of…' Matthew cut him off.

'Shh. We can do all that, but I want to go all the way to the top first. And I want to take the stairs just so I can boast about it to Alfred.' Francis stiffened at the mention of the name.

'Ah, your brother. He does not like me very much, not at all.' Matthew offered him a lick of his ice cream to cheer him up.

'Don't worry. He's just very protective of me. Once you meet him, you'll get on fine. Look, the queue's moving now!'

The view from the top was wonderful, the city and its environs radiating out in all directions and displaying a potted history of architecture. Matthew leaned up against Francis, grateful for the loving arm around his waist that stopped him from collapsing with exhaustion after their ill-advised climb. His breathing still wasn't quite back to normal.

'I wonder what all those people down there are thinking about. I wonder if they're in love, or if they're missing someone, or something like that,' he mused. He turned to Francis. 'Why don't you write a poem about it?' Francis smiled and stroked his hair.

'I only take inspiration from one thing, my love.' They stood in silence for a little while, watching the busy lives going on below. Eventually, Francis said, 'We should take a picture of ourselves.' Matthew coloured deeply.

'Oh no, we don't need to.'

'But surely you want to show Alfred some photographic proof of your achievement?'

'Alright then, but you do it. I'm useless at taking pictures.' He handed Francis the camera, since the Frenchman thought that carrying it himself would make him look like a tourist, then tried to get into a vaguely photogenic pose. Francis pressed a few buttons, then held the camera out at arm's length.

'Smile, _mon cheri_,' he said as he pressed the shutter button. Matthew arranged his features into a rictus grin, feeling self-conscious even though about a hundred other people were taking identical pictures. Then, without warning, Francis kissed him right on the lips. He had become used to these spontaneous shows of love, but he could never say for certain when one would happen. Still, it was far from unpleasant, even if he would have preferred not do it in public. When they pulled apart, Francis looked at the camera and cackled in triumph, then showed to picture to Matthew.

'What? How? I thought… Oh, you had it on timer, didn't you? Well, I can't send Alfred a picture of us kissing. Do it again – No, I'll do it. I don't trust you.' Matthew was horrified. Francis was laughing hysterically.

'Ah, Mathieu, this is not for your brother, unless you want to show him. No, this is for our own collection – our first holiday is an important occasion, _non_? Now, if you are still desperate to make your brother jealous, we can do it properly.'

'I hate you,' Matthew muttered.

'I love you too.' Francis said, laughing as he did so.

….

Matthew hummed to himself as he dusted the mantelpiece that contained all the precious memories that he and Francis had together. He couldn't quite believe that they'd been together for ten years, married for eight and proud fathers to Jeanne, the most wonderful daughter anyone could ask for, as Francis was fond of saying, for five. For the first time in a while, he gave their mementoes a proper look. There was the first poem Francis had given him, framed and given pride of place, as well as one he'd written for Jeanne when they'd first adopted her. There was their wedding photo, several others from their various travels abroad, and a big studio family one of the three of them. In the middle was a vase containing two preserved roses from their wedding and a sprig of lavender that they had put in once Jeanne had been added to their family.

He was brought out of his memories by the sound of the car pulling up outside, then Jeanne's excited little voice as she chattered to Francis. The two had gone out shopping, something Matthew usually did. He sincerely hoped that Francis had resisted spoiling his little girl. He went to open the door and leaned against the frame as he watched Francis unload the boot. He had a disconcerting number of bags. Jeanne, her white summer dress swirling around as she skipped, ran over to Matthew and hugged his knees.

'Hello daddy!' she said gleefully, grinning with lips that were coated in sugar. This did not bode well.

'Hey Baby J,' he said, using his nickname for her. 'Did papa let you have a cake?' She nodded enthusiastically.

'Yeah, a custard tart! And we brought you back a cinnamon thing because you like them.' She reached up and seized his hands. 'I want to show you what we bought! We bought _lots _of clothes, and they're all _really _pretty!' Oh dear, Matthew thought.

'Hello, _mon cher_,' Francis said cheerfully, coming over to them. 'I hope you were not too lonely without us.' They shared a quick kiss, making Jeanne giggle and squeal in childish horror. As they went inside, Matthew cast a sideways glance at the numerous bags.

'You certainly bought an awful lot,' he said in an undertone.

Francis and Jeanne's purchases littered the living room floor. With every fairy outfit, impractical party dress and frilly top, Matthew had felt his heart sink a little further. He plunged his hand into the last remaining bag.

'What's this? Lip gloss? For God's sake Francis, she's only five! We discussed this: no makeup until she's at least twelve.' Francis pouted.

'I am sorry, Mathieu, but who am I to deny my princess anything?'

'You're her father, that's who. She needs jeans and T-shirts, not dresses. I don't see why you couldn't just have said no. You're spoiling her. It's bad enough with Alfred and Ivan bringing her all those things whenever they come and visit.'

'I know, but I was in such good spirits on account of that new publishing deal…'

'Yes, yes, three more books over the next four years, well done.' He sighed, unable to stay irritated for long. 'Well, never mind. At least she'll look cute in those clothes.' Francis saw that he was forgiven and wrapped his arms around Matthew. Jeanne ran over to them to join the embrace. Enveloped by two sets of arms, Matthew reflected on the beginnings of their relationship. It had been strange at first, being a poet's muse, and it was true that both of them had needed a little help from each other to get used to loving again, but it had all worked out in the end. They weren't perfect, but then again no couple was. For now, it was enough that, with each other and Jeanne, they had found a love that was – totally and unconditionally – returned.

…

**Author's Note: BOOM! Attack of the totally unnecessary family fluff! Mwahahahaha! Yes, the story is finished now, but I hope you enjoyed. My mind can't quite process the fact that 27 people were following this story! I love you all, every single one of you. **


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